A to Z of Anthony Stark
by SupernaturalBaby4Life
Summary: 26 Oneshots of Tony!Whump and Hurt!Tony with Comfort from all members of the team. Each letter of the alphabet, A to Z, is a different prompt (Chapter 1, A for Asphyxiation, for example). AU in certain regards, but never out of character. ACCEPTING PROMPTS! NO SLASH in this story, even though I do ship Stony and Stucky. (Rated T for language and themes)
1. A for Asphyxiation Part 1

This chapter is very Clint (the real marvel Hawkeye with hearing aids) and Tony heavy This is also my very first avengers fic, and i am taking prompts because i will need help coming up with ideas for certain letters (A to Z), so please review and be kind :D

Enjoy!

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A for Asphyxiation

Part 1

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"Well, Fuck me."

Clint laughed into the com system, only slightly out of breath as he leaped across low-rise rooftops. "You kissed your mother with that mouth, Stark?"

"Your mother didn't seem to mind my mouth last night, Barton," came the playfully gruff retort. Tony Stark weaved and bobbed, dodging the tendrils of the _thing_ that had just crawled its way out of the Hudson. It was disgusting, to say the least. Just the sight of it made Tony's stomach give a little flip flop. Black, and oozing ( _of course it had to be oozing, New York rivers can never produce a normal kind of gross_ ), the monstrous blob seemed to be belching toxic fumes and leaking dark brown pus from huge blisters that covered it from head to ass…or ass to head… seriously either combination would have been believable; it was so ugly. Its mere resemblance to a squid had the billionaire superhero swearing off calamari to his dying day.

Needless to say, Iron Man's "Fuck Me" was a well-timed and appropriate sentiment at the sight that met the whole team when they arrived in downtown Manhattan. Immediately, Captain America had started rambling off directives for each member. The civilian evacuation was well underway - S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken care of that before the call had even come in. The early warning system Stark Industries had helped put in place in New York (a complicated system of charts and radars deemed necessary after the last attack) had given the organization plenty of time to ensure the safety of the citizens. In addition to the proactive system being exemplary, the monster was also just slow as shit. After all, it was a big black ball of snot - not exactly hitting top speeds.

Captain America and Agent Romanoff took to the streets immediately after landing the Quinjet a safe space away. A quick radial thermal scan showed that the neighborhood was, in fact, clear of all possible residents. Steve let out a relieved breath. There was nothing he hated more than civilian casualties. This way, he would be able to focus more on directing his team and ensuring their safety without being preoccupied with collateral damage.

"Hawkeye, get in position." Steve's voice rang clear and commanding into his mic. From his vantage point, Hawkeye held his finger to his earpiece and nodded down at the rest of the group to show his understanding. Quickly, he skirted across another building top, his keen eyes searching for the perfect spot to set up his roost. Nestling atop an arch stone on a well-situated ledge, he drew his bow, notched an arrow, and waited for the command to fire. He had a perfect view of the playing field.

Rogers turned to Natasha. "Widow, you're with me. We need to keep the fighting in front of the evacuation perimeter. It gives us a little flexibility, but not much." A steady but slight nod from the red head showed her understanding. Out of the corner of his eye, Captain America saw her flex her shoulders and run her fingertips over her weapons and her utility belt. She was never unprepared.

The sound of thrusters now drew the Cap's full attention. Tony wasn't engaging the beast, but he was certainly pissing it off. They could all hear his giddy breaths and exclamations over the com system as he made narrow escape after narrow escape. _He was such an adrenaline junky._

"Stark, Don't." The soldier's edge to his voice was absolute as he spoke into the comm. "You have your orders. Do not engage. And that includes making it angry."

It was Bruce's voice that interrupted the line this time. "Yah, Tony, not everyone is cute and cuddly like me when they're upset." His sarcasm was always made funnier by the lulling tone of his voice. Tony laughed; even Romanoff's lips tweaked upwards a little bit. Bruce was safely stationed in the Quinjet, monitoring everyone's vitals and logging as much information about the beast as possible. He had a labyrinth of scientific equipment in place that would be measuring its radiation levels, oxygen saturation, chemical emissions, and a bunch of other jargon Steve had attempted to understand. Bruce would remain in the Quinjet unless the team had no choice but to use the Other Guy. This was Manhattan, and since the battle of New York, the government had been rather…sensitive about Avengers-Induced property damage. Regardless, bringing out the Hulk was a last resort on this mission.

The _Walking Booger_ , as Tony had so nobly dubbed it, was huffing and puffing and sliming its way towards the team. Coming in on the jet, it had looked big, but standing here on the ground gave them all a new perspective. It was huge. And _Christ_ it stank. With a slow and blistered turn of its head, the monster revealed a black slimy eyeball that locked on to the spot where Captain America and Widow stood. It roared a deep, moist gurgling sound that was nothing short of repulsive. From his position, an involuntary shiver ran down Clint's spine. _It was just gross._

The monster, fixated on the two Avengers it could see clearly, began to charge. It was pulling and sliding itself towards them at a surprisingly fast rate, ferocity, anger, and malevolence clear in its movements. Without a flinch, Widow had her handguns out of her belt and in her palms, firing, before Steve could even raise his shield. Bullet after bullet struck true and straight, lodging in and around the monster's single eye, effectively blinding it. The Booger Beast screamed in agony and fury, but only increased its speed. Steve ran to his left and jumped atop an abandoned newspaper stand, throwing his shield with all his superhuman might. It struck the beast, and a spray of brown blood accompanied the cacophonous sound of putrid blisters being popped as the shield ran across them. The monster stopped its charge and reared up, thrashing in gushed freely from the splits in its hide. It was like some sick version of bubble wrap.

"In my, um, scientific opinion," Bruce softly chimed. "That's really gross."

A slew of mumbled expletives and a small gag could be heard over the com. "You okay there, Barton?" Widow teased as she reloaded her guns in a swift movement.

"Oh yeah, I'm just peachy." Barton's pained swallow was audible. "Really, guys, I think we should all go out for a huge lunch after this. All of us, everyone, someone call Thor down from the heavens, unless he's busy brushing his hair - hell, lets even invite Phil. Sushi, maybe, or some raw slimy octopus on marinara sau-"

"Featherface, if you don't shut your mouth right now I will fly my pretty iron ass to your rooftop and vomit on your head." Much to everyone's relief, Clint stopped talking.

Back to the task at hand and barely able to withstand the urge to cover their noses, Steve and Nat fired everything they had at the beast from ground level. Barton followed suit from his perch. Tony looked on, pained at his own lack of involvement, but his orders were clear. He couldn't engage until they were sure conventional weaponry wouldn't do the job. Still, it was torture for the hero to just sit there and watch his teammates grow more and more frustrated. But, to their credit, they continued on: shooting, throwing, firing, piercing, and slashing – to no avail. Though the Boogie Monster was obviously disoriented and in pain, nothing seemed to be really internally damaging it. At this rate, it would take a week to kill it. Steve let out a huff of frustration. _Dammit_. Time to call in the big guns. I _f only the big guns weren't so smug._

"Widow, disengage and rendezvous with Hawkeye. Tony, engage, but _be careful_. There's not much we can do to that thing if it gets a hold of you." His voice, though controlled, was full of tension. "Don't do anything stupid, Stark."

 _Please be careful, Tony._

"Don't get your pantyhose in a bunch, Miss America."

 _I'll be ok._

"Idiot."

 _You better be._

With a steadying breath in, Tony prepared to take to the sky. "JARVIS, put another 10% into the thrusters. I want to hit this guy and hit him hard."

"Absolutely, Sir. And may I advise caution, if only for the propriety of the sentiment, knowing full well that you'll ignore me regardless."

Tony grinned. "Yes, JARVIS, you may advise it."

The rest of the Avengers watched the metal suit fly low to the street, parallel with the pavement before pulling up swiftly underneath the beast's chin. With the gauntlet curled into a tight, unforgiving fist, the punch that struck the beast from below caused a sickly squelching sound, but it did its job. The monster roared onto its rear tentacles and swatted blindly into the sky, trying to knock Tony to the ground. Without its vision, the monster failed miserably. Tony swooped under and over, left and right, ellipses and swan dives, punching the beast and shooting mercilessly and strategically with his repulsors. After only a few short minutes, the beast gave a gurgling cry and collapsed to the ground, its tendrils spasming in apparent death throes. Tony planted himself firmly on the street. "Level complete," he muttered under his breath and laughed.

He retracted his faceplate to reveal his telltale smirk. Steve just rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the smile on his face. It was a successfully completed mission. Nobody dead, nobody even scratched. How often did that happen? They all patted Stark roughly on the back of the suit, congratulating, joking, and teasing.

With the all clear, the S.H.I.E.L.D. ground crew came storming in from behind the perimeter. In contrast to the battalion's hurried and harsh SWAT-like movements came Bruce Banner with a smile on his face and a few water bottles in his hands. His jaunt was light and relieved, as he politely stayed out of the paths of the scuttling agents.

The Avengers stood together in the middle of the street, watching as order was restored. This was always the unseen part of missions, of the group as a team: The sweat and the exhaustion and the recuperating. Bruce tossed the first bottle to Nat, who gratefully accepted it, sipping slowly to rehydrate and rid herself of the bad taste in her mouth. That monster had left a very bad smell that would probably linger on their clothes and in their hair for weeks, no matter how many times they made Coulson do their laundry. Bruce threw the next bottle to Tony, whose sweat was visibly running down his hairline, his dark curly Italian locks sticking to his forehead. Bruce eyed him, slightly concerned.

"You good, Tony?"

"Oh, yah," the engineer nodded, "this." He gestured absentmindedly to his sweaty face. "I needed another 10% in the thrusters; JARVIS had to cut the AC for the power distribution. It gets surprisingly warm in a metal box." Tony gulped down half the water bottle in one go, content to savor the rest, then instinctively tried to wipe the sweat out of his eyes with his gauntleted hand. Instead, he succeeded in hitting his unarmored forehead with the smooth titanium fingers hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Ah, screw it." And with that, he had JARVIS unlock his gauntlets and his helmet. He stripped off his gloves and placed the suit's head piece at his feet, stretching his fingers and rolling his neck. Tony ruffled his hair, slicking it back and out of his face. It was a hot day, early august in New York City. All five of them were looking forward to a nice cool rinse back at the tower. They certainly couldn't stand to be down here any longer, the smell really was horrid. It had that raw putrid fish smell mixed with waste - like as if a mermaid crawled into sewage pipe, vomited, and then died.

Clint had just gotten to the punchline of a really dirty joke (that undoubtedly would end with a reference to the smell of fish) when the screams began.

The team whipped around in fighting stance to see what the noise was about: a lurch, clearly visible, of a lone tentacle as it crawled on the hot pavement. Then, the body of the beast, giving a resilient shudder, and a small groan that grew both in volume and aggression echoed off the abandoned buildings surrounding. uh-oh.

Barton was the first to chime in. "So, Not dead?"

Nat, curtly: "Not dead."

Agents were running back toward the perimeter as more parts of the monster started to move. The tendrils' movements became stronger, more aware, and more purposed. They snaked and lanced and lashed, trying to kill anything they could reach. Bruce, with an apologetic look at the team, also retreated with the crowd. He would come only if called. The whole team rushed to brace themselves for round two."Damn," Steve spat, reaching down to pick up his shield.

"Watch your mouth, Steven, lest mother find out." Tony, that cheeky bastard.

"Now isn't the time Stark, we need to focus."

"I know, Cap, I know. I just need you to be wary of my virgin ears - that's all."

"Stark, I swear to God, I….."

The two kept at it, but nobody else was listening. Nat and Clint were reloading and preparing their weapons, filtering out the banter to their left so that they could focus and keep wary eyes on the beast that seemed to be growing more aware every second that passed. Clint drew his bow and reached around for his quiver – but it was empty. He mentally chastised himself. He had fired arrow after arrow while Cap and Nat were still engaged with the monster. He didn't realize that he had used his whole bloody stock.

 _Goddammit_ , Barton stopped. His eye caught a very familiar flash of silver twenty feet in front of him. It was an arrow head, an explosive impact detonator (a "boom-boom" as Tony liked to call them) to be specific. He must have forgotten to arm it when he shot it. Either way, there was still a charge in that thing, it just needed another impact. With one eye on the monster, Clint sprinted towards the arrow head, determined to not be defenseless. He wasn't a superhuman, or a robotic genius. He needed tools to fight. He needed his arrows.

Steve tried to call him back, seeing how dangerously close he was getting to the thrashing creepy crawly, but Clint was already halfway there. Sliding on the pavement, his Kevlar cargo pants allowed him to painlessly skid to where the arrow head lay. Clint picked it up, notched it and leapt to his feet, running back to the safety of the group where he could fire a shot.

That's when all hell broke loose.

Clint was already turned around and couldn't have seen the tentacle arching above his head. Nor could he have seen the tendril shoot down at him, its point curling in the wrap itself around whatever it touched and squeeze the life out of it. Clint did not see those things. But Steve did. Nat did. Bruce did.

Tony certainly did.

Clint was only about 15 feet away from safety, but Tony knew it was 15 feet too far. Tony dropped the gauntlet he was trying to quickly reattach and allowed his bionic legs to cover the distance in two strides, catching only a flashing glimpse of Clint's shocked and confused stare when Tony literally plowed into him, knocking him off to the side. Clint felt the air leave his body, his back sandwiched painfully between pavement and a titanium alloy weight. His head smacked the concrete, and he saw stars. One, no, two of his ribs groaned dangerously under the crushing load that was Tony Stark.

But then the weight vanished, gone as soon as it had appeared. Clint, in a painful daze, blinked several times to clear his vision, feeling as though he was missing something. He could pick up muffled yells and cries from around him, but everything seemed dampened. He brought one uncoordinated and slightly shaky hand up to his ear – ah, shit. There was the culprit. Stark had knocked out his damn hearing aids. He steadied his arms and put the small plastic tools back into his ears, making sure they were undamaged and situated more firmly. The five seconds it took for him to do this may have well been five years, for all that he had missed; because when he flicked the little dial in his ear to turn his aids on, the first thing that shook and resonated in his skull made his heart stop and his blood run cold.

Steve's voice sounded above all others, bathed in panic.

"TONY, NO!"

TO BE CONTINUED

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PLEASE READ THIS ITS IMPORTANT:

Okey dokey folks! So that was my first Avengers fic ever! Obviously this one will be 2 parts, but i swear the rest are just oneshots. I'll try to update at least twice a week If you have any letters that you want me to do with specific prompts, like B for blown up or W for Windstorm or C for car crash or anything just please leave a review! these kinds of fic series are really fun to do and they are really fun to read, i find. Some of these will be missions like this letter, but most will be everyday things or freak accidents where being a superhero isnt even relevant. the important thing is, Tony will be in pain for this whole thing. and I'm an evil sadist who will enjoy every second of it. Who doesn't love a little Hurt!Tony.

THANK YOU AND PLEASE REVIEW MY LITTLE CUPCAKES.


	2. A for Asphyxiation Part 2

Part 2

Tony felt bad, he really did. He'd hit Barton hard. _Hard._ Poor guy probably had a cracked rib at least, but it was better than the alternative.

Definitely better than the alternative.

And Tony would know, seeing how he was now the poor bastard suffering the alternative.

That smelly fucking tentacle wrapped around Tony's airborne ankle less than a second after his arms and chest pinned Barton to the street. It would have gotten Clint right around the waist, snapping his spine instantly. Stark was yanked with such a force backwards that it felt as though a parachute had just interrupted a freefall. His head snapped back and he flew through the air, wind rushing over his face.

 _Oh, shit. The wind is on my face._

The realization struck him, and if he hadn't been busy playing ragdoll for the Boogie Monster, Tony would have slapped himself. He was almost completely unarmed. Tony had only managed to get one of his gauntlets back on before he had grabbed Clint, the other gauntlet and his helmet were lying uselessly on the ground 20 feet away. It might as well have been 20 miles. The gooey, crushing grip on his armored calf wasn't going to budge. "JARVIS!" Tony screamed, hoping his helmet would register over the noise of his teammates and the scrambling of agents. "PUT EVERYTHING WE'VE GOT INTO THE THRUSTERS!" Tony pushed and tried to fly with all his might, his thrusters, independently energized, were still functioning. However, without the brain of the suit actually _attached_ to the suit to distribute the power, there was nothing Tony could do. Despite the tremendous force of the jets on the bottom of his boots, the beast held on, to its own credit. Not only did the bastard hold on, but it seemed to have caught its second wind, and it was pissed. It pulled Tony in close, wrapping another tentacle around his waist. It couldn't crush him in the suit, it wasn't that strong yet, but it seemed more and more alert and furious every second. There was no telling what it might do.

Tony pulled his one gauntleted hand up, blasting the beast in its already irreparably damaged eye. It wailed that putrid gurgle, but only brought another tentacle to wrap around Tony's torso, pinning his one useful arm to his side. "DAMMIT!" Tony screamed. "A LITTLE HELP HERE, GUYS?!" He didn't want to sound as frightened as he was, but he was vulnerable. More vulnerable than he cared to be.

"Tony, we're coming!" Came Steve's shout of assurance. They were wading their own way through the minefield of tentacles, slicing, rolling, and trying their best to get close enough to help Tony. The billionaire felt fear and guilt welling inside his stomach as he watched them narrowly, and often times, only luckily escape the crushing force of this barbaric booger's limbs.

They were gonna get themselves killed. Tony had to act.

"STEVE, BACK OUT - BACK OUT NOW. I HAVE A PLAN!" It was such a fucking lie, but what other choice did he have?

Steve looked puzzled, but nodded. He grabbed Romanoff and ran to the outskirts of the beast's reach. ' _Check on Barton,_ ' Tony heard him say. In the grasp of the beast, he could just slightly turn his head to peep at the archer himself. Barton was still lying, dazed, fumbling about for his hearing aids. Whoops. Tony would apologize for that, too, later. If there was a later. Jesus he hoped there would be a later. Death by booze? Acceptable. Death by Viagra overdose at a very old age? More than acceptable. But death by booger? You've got to be shitting me.

There was only one thing tony could think to do (and he really hoped the mayor of New York would forgive him for the property damage). "STEVE! PLAN B, OKAY? CALL BRUCE. GET BANNER IN HERE NOW, THIS THING IS GETTING WAY TOO STRONG. HEAR ME? GET BR-"

Tony felt the black slime dripping on his forehead before the thin tendril snaked its way around his throat. It clamped down, cutting off his voice, but more crucially, his air. It was squeezing, but luckily it was one of the smallest tentacles on the beast, just small enough to fit around Tony's throat, but not big enough to snap any bones. Maybe. Hopefully not.

Tony could hear the blood rushing in his ears; he could feel that terrible pressure in his head, could almost sense the deep scarlet of his face. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe at all. He tried to claw at the tentacle, tear at it with his fingers, but his stronger gauntleted hand was still pinned down by the larger tentacles wrapping his waist and legs. He could hear them shouting, calling his name, screaming. Steve, particularly louder than the others, but Tony couldn't really focus. The tentacle was like a python, unyielding and merciless. He could hardly see anymore. Little black spots danced in his vision. His lungs screamed for air. It had been almost 60 seconds without a breath, now, and tears leaked from his eyes. His veins in his arms were bulging with effort. The pain was like fire, tearing at his throat and his insides. This couldn't last much longer. Tony couldn't last much longer.

Distantly, Star could hear SHIELD agents firing off guns, trying to force the monster to drop him. Slightly closer, Tony could hear Roger's furious screams at them to stop, that they might hit Stark. _Aww, he does care._ Tony would have smiled cheekily if he could have mustered up the focus. That was very like him, of course – practically a Stark Commandment: _Even in the face of thy death, thou shalt act like a sassy lil shit._

SHIELD's firing squad had almost completely stopped, but some stray bullets were still being fired, and frankly it was only pissing the booger off even further. Tony didn't think it was possible for the monster to squeeze his throat any tighter, but somehow it did. As the grip tightened, Tony's body began to thrash in protest. His thrashing was only met with a stronger clamping, like his neck was in a vice, and even his pitiful gurgles ceased. Despite his panic, his heart rate was dropping, the flow of oxygenated blood being stifled. His throat was nothing more now than a shut off valve for circulation. Tony started thinking back to plumbing and the physics of water flow and pressure…he couldn't really focus on much at this point. It had definitely been more than two minutes now. He couldn't really feel his legs…or his arms…a sort of numbness was dancing like needle pricks in his extremities. His throat was the only thing he could feel anymore. Pain…so much pain… His lungs gave their last lurches, spasming in his chest, each one less agonizing and less powerful than the last. Finally, even his lungs gave up. His heartbeat was weak, erratic. His vision tunneled and the world fell silent. Tony Stark faded out with one last thought….

 _Fuck, I guess this_ _ **is**_ _the end._

Tony Stark's eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness…

… just as the roar of a hulking green rage monster shattered the air.

Steve Rogers saw the tentacle wrap around Tony's throat before Tony even registered it was there.

"TONY, NO!" Steve lunged at the beast, watching the man who was practically his brother being choked by a horrifying slime monster that Steve was absolutely useless against. He had never been so furious and so scared. Not since…Bucky….

 _No_ , Steve set his jaw tightly. _This would not be that_. Steve couldn't watch another friend die in front of him while he was useless to help. He would not let himself stand by and let Howard Stark's baby boy be strangled to death by some fucked up looking sludge alien.

He was two strides in when a strong but small hand grabbed his neck. Steve almost reacted instinctively, about to punch whoever it was, but he registered Widow's grasp before he spun.

"Steve, Dammit!" She cried, exasperated and more than a little panicked. Despite her cool Russian exterior, she was just as afraid for Tony. "You can't just walk in there, you heard what Stark said; we need to get Banner. Steve, it's that same fucking gung-ho attitude that got Stark in this mess in the first place."

"Actually, I'm what got him in this mess," came a very shaky and distressed voice from their right. Clint was up, brushing himself off, and cradling his side where Stark had most likely cracked a rib or two. He was a mess of guilt and bruises and shame.

Nat threw him a sympathetic glance, but everyone understood that now was not the time for heartfelt speeches. With only a slight hesitation, and a look at Romanoff for reassurance, their leader shouted into the com system for Banner to get his hulking green ass down here immediately.

They sure as hell didn't need to ask twice. Dr. Banner already had his shoes off and was running down the street, getting greener and greener every step he took. The sight of his best friend dangling helplessly by the neck was certainly very helpful with the "whole rage thing." The other guy was just as pissed as Bruce, and for the first time they had an exact understanding _. Save Tony_.

Bruce leapt into the air, and right before he landed on the monster's body, the transformation was complete. The hulk let out an earth-shattering roar, and pounded his fist through yards of goo. The beast flailed helplessly and the Hulk literally pounded holes in its massive cavity. Tentacles shook violently and erratically, trying desperately to stop the pain and the attack, but the Hulk swatted them away like flies. Using his ungodly strong fists, the Hulk plunged his hands into the beast and pulled, ripping it apart. Black and Brown puss rolled and bubbled from the 10 foot tear in its body, and it finally stopped fighting, just dying and twitching in the street. The smell was almost unbearable to the humans in the field, but Hulk was unfazed. His glowing green eyes looked for one thing in the mess, the man of iron. _The friend. Hulk's friend_. His vision set upon an unmoving metal form. Concern offset anger, and the Hulk knowingly retreated, allowing Bruce to resurface. The man within the monster flew back to the surface and took control, his form shrinking and paling. By the time he was at Tony's side, his eyes were just returning to their chocolate brown and his whole body was shaking with fatigue, but Tony was the number one concern.

As fast as he could manage, Bruce unwrapped the tentacle from Tony's throat, tears welling gin his eyes at the obvious bruising and the deep indents the deathly grip had left behind. As soon as his throat was clear, Bruce expected Tony to draw in a breath. He waited for a second. There was nothing.

"Shit, shit, shit," Bruce muttered and fumbled for the mechanical releases on the suit that Tony had showed him how to operate. He could hear the others running up behind him, barking questions at him, but he couldn't focus on them. It had been almost 3 minutes now that Tony had been without air. He had to get him resuscitated within the next 60 seconds. 4 minutes is where things started shutting down. Past 4 minutes was permanent brain damage. Tony would rather die than not be able to function the way he wanted. Bruce would never let Tony die, but at this rate he might not be able to stop it. Tony looked absolutely terrible. Unmoving, unresponsive, bruised and swollen, the purple strangled shade had flushed from his face which was now alarmingly pale.

Finally, the last lock snapped out of place and Bruce heaved the heavy chest plate to the side, pressing his head down to Tony's lifeless chest. It was difficult to hear anything over the hum of the arc reactor, but Bruce was still able to detect it. - just there, ever so faint, was a weak heartbeat. Tony was still alive. Oh thank God.

"Oh, God, ok, he's still alive." Bruce gasped out, the rest of the team all standing on wobbly legs and panic evident on all of their faces. Bruce closed his eyes for a split second, and became Dr. Banner. There was no time for fear or nervousness; he needed to detach himself from his feelings and let his medical training take control.

"Clint," he snapped. The archer went fully alert, desperate to do something to help. "I need you to run into the buildings you see here and find me a pen. A plastic pen with refillable ink tubes. I don't need the tubes, just the pen, do you understand?" Bruce held his gaze steady as Barton turned and sprinted towards the offices that lined the street. "Tash, I need you to hold Tony's head very still and pull slightly to elongate his neck. I have no idea if his windpipe is collapsed from the struggle, so I need you to stabilize it, do you understand?" The Black Widow, ever poised, nodded simply and did as she was told. "Steve," Bruce shuffled on his skinned knees over to Tony's mouth prepping him for CPR. "I need you to do chest compressions for me. I don't know how long this will have to go on, and the other guy took a lot out of me."

That was the understatement of the century. Even kneeling, the doctor was swaying a little back and forth, his face flushed and clammy, and his skin drenched in a cold sweat. But he remained strong in his voice, if only for the rest of the team's benefit. They were all terrified.

Bruce leaned down and pinched Tony's nose with one hand, raising his chin with another. Natasha was right there, cradling Stark's head and holding it steady for breaths. CPR began - two breaths and then 30 chest compressions by Steve. It was hard to work around the arc reactor, but he tried his best. They were on their second set of breaths when Clint returned with the pen in his hand. Bruce sagged in relief. He hadn't wanted to raise alarm, but the CPR had been entirely for show. Tony's windpipe and trachea were already collapsed, Bruce had known it on first glance, but he couldn't scare the others.

"Thank you, Clint." he said hurriedly, uncapping the pen and ripping out the ink cartridge. He unscrewed the top and writing tip, forming nothing but a sharp tube.

"Bruce, what are you doing with tha-OH MY GOD!" Steve's pained and panicked voice ended in a shocked cry as Bruce plunged the pen into the base of Tony's throat. It pierced the skin and Bruce immediately bent his lips to suck on the tube in short huffs like a straw. He sucked quickly, and the rest of the team stood unmoving, pale faced, as a small hiccup of blood trickled out of the straw before it cleared completely.

"This is a field tracheotomy," Bruce explained, hands clamping around the base of the pen, steadying the life line to Tony's lungs. "Tony's throat is severely damaged. Breaths were not entering through his mouth, so we had to…skip the trachea. Steve, continue compressions."

The blonde did as he was told, despite the slight tremble in his hands as he pressed, one, two, three, four… Bruce now delivered rescue breaths through the pen tube. Despite the grotesque situation, all 4 teammates were relieved to see the crumpled man's chest rising and falling. He was getting oxygen, desperately needed oxygen.

Nat checked her watch. Tony had been out for three minutes and fifty-one seconds. They had come in under the infamous four minute mark. Her usually stoic and unreadable face visibly sagged with the release of incredible tension. Stark would still be fine. Stark would still be Stark.

Tony could feel himself waking up. The soft, silky darkness was peeling back now. Things were brightening; voices were coming into an audible range. He could feel his toes and his fingers.

He pouted. This was not what he wanted. What he wanted was to curl up and sleep for another five years, minimum. The darkness was soothing and warm and safe. He was exhausted, he hurt, and he was grumpy. He squeezed his eyes tighter against the intrusion.

Tony couldn't remember anything, and nothing really made sense. There were beeping noises, here - steady and persistent.

 _And annoying,_ He internally remarked. Seriously, the persistent bell tone was driving him mad. If he could manage to open his eyes, he would be able to see what it was and tell someone to shut it the fuck off.

 _It's probably the damn toaster oven beeping away_ , he thought groggily. Thor never remembers to shut it off after he's taken out the half dozen pop tarts he eats every morning for a snack between breakfast and second breakfast. No matter, JARVIS could shut it off if he told him to.

Tony opened his mouth to call for the AI. Strange... His mouth was like sandpaper; his jaw weighed a million tons. His tongue was about as pliable as a steel beam. Speaking was not going to be very easy, if it was even possible. Even so, Tony opened his lips a fraction of a fraction of an inch, already feeling the fatigue from that simple movement.

 _Here goes nothing…_

Steve and Barton sat sullenly in the hard plastic chairs. Steve was stationed just left of the hospital bed with one large warm hand resting tentatively on Tony's arm, just above his IV. The steady _"beep…beep…beep"_ of the heart monitor was music to his ears – his favorite sound in the world. It was proof that Tony was still here, still with them, when they had been so close to losing him.

The super solider never left his post unless it was to check the hallway for possible threats or to use the bathroom. Steve can't remember the last time he slept, and he supposed, all in all, it was best not to dwell on those things; it would just make him more tired than he was. Shaking his foggy head, uncombed hair sticking up in different directions, Steve stretched slightly. He wouldn't sleep until Tony woke up. He wouldn't sleep until he knew everything was alright.

Clint was perched at the foot of Tony's bed. His back had molded into the chair that he had been occupying for the past 4 days, and he was pretty sure he had left a permanent ass-imprint on the plastic. Like Steve, Barton hadn't slept. But he had no super serum to keep him running. He was on his thirtieth cup of espresso, and the blotchy dark circles under his eyes were both proof of his exhaustion and his grief. Clint felt incredibly guilty, and all team's assurances and kind words had been met with naught but silence. He hadn't spoken since Stark was rushed to New York- Presbyterian 72 hours ago. The regret and the pain were crushing him like a rock pile. All of his thoughts were full of _buts_ and _if only's._ Hindsight isn't twenty-twenty, hindsight is a _bitch_.

A gentle knock on the door, a pause, and then three more gentle knocks heralded the arrival of Nat. Romanoff, in a fresh change of clothes and freshly showered, handed one grab bag to the super solider staring at their fallen compatriot's arm and the other bag to the sullen archer who couldn't take his eyes off the floor. She waited, and gave a cough to get their attention. They didn't even blink out of rhythm. The Russian had had enough.

"I swear to God, if you two don't quit sulking around here I'm going to knock you both unconscious and set you up in rooms across the hall." Her voice was soft but sincere. "Maybe then you'll get a good night's sleep."

Normally, this would have been met with a cheeky invitation to share a bed by Clint and Steve pulling rank with a smug grin on his face, but not today. Today, Steve just quietly thanked her for the bag of clean clothes she had brought; he set it on his lap, drawing it into himself the way a child does with a stuffed animal. Clint didn't even each for the bag Nat had thrown next to the chair. He simply nodded at her and then returned his gaze to the floor.

"I'm serious, you jackoffs." She grabbed Steve roughly by the shoulder, spinning him around. "You smell. You look terrible. You're exhausted. Tony isn't going to wake up for at least another two days. You heard what the doctors said. Go take a fucking shower. And you," the assassin walked over to where Barton sat, unresponsive. She facepalmed, letting her cool and calculated mask slip away completely. She dragged her fingers down her face, frustrated. _Enough was fuckin' enough._

In a swift movement that nobody was expecting (least of all, poor Clint), she crouched low and kicked the legs out from underneath the chair. Clint fell with a crash, the suddenness of the move causing him to try to jump to his feet, alert. Plastic flew across the tile, and the archer landed on his back with a satisfying "oomph!" He stared at her unbelieving, mouth open and fumbling for words.

"Yah, you. Go take a fucking nap you look like the ass end of an overworked mule." And with that, Nat handed him his go-bag and pushed him into the cot at the far end of the room that Bruce had slept on the night before. Nat had slept across the hall overnight after taking hallway watch duty. She woke early and, seeing there was no change with Tony, she returned to the Tower to get some clean clothes for herself and her surrogate brothers.

Clint hit the cot and started to protest, but the moment his head came in contact with pillow, his eyes started drooping. Nat could tell he was fighting it.

"Shhh, Clint. Just try to get some sleep. I'll wake you in twenty minutes."

"Fi-teen," he mumbled. His protest caused the redhead to smile, just slightly.

"Fifteen minutes, then." And with that, the archer was dead to the world. Nat glanced over at Steve, who looked at Barton, then her, and then back at Tony. He patted Tony's unmoving hand gently, and took his grab bag into the bathroom. Nat breathed contentedly when she heard the shower turn on.

She had just seated herself in Steve's vacated chair when Bruce sounded the password at the door. He entered and smiled at what he observed. Nat, stroking Tony's calloused fingers. Clint was snoring lightly in the corner, and the sound of rushing water and Steve, humming a 1930's love song ever so softly, echoed from the bathroom. Bruce shot Nat a thankful look, the small smile always on his face. He placed the pastries down on the counter next to the door and handed the Russian a cup from the full drink tray he held in his arms. She nodded silently in thanks. He nodded back and leaned against the foot of Tony's bed, his hip resting near the unmoving pair of feet. The steady sound of the heart monitor reassured them both.

Steve's shower had just stopped, and Clint had just rolled onto his stomach and ceased his snoring, so maybe it was the absence of noise that allowed them to hear it. Maybe it had been going on this whole time but they didn't know, or maybe it was freak luck that they had both been sitting without talking the way they usually did. But in the complete silence of that hospital room, Nat and Bruce almost spilled their drinks when the noise came, so softly, yet clearly audible.

"….Ja….?"

They froze, staring at each other, both too afraid to believe that it was true. Slowly, ever so slowly, they turned to look at the face of Tony. Pale, haggard, and sunken, their friend had never looked so frail. The field trach that Bruce had performed was nothing more now than a small white gauze pad above his thyroid. A cannula was the replacement for the ventilator he had been on for the first 24 hours. But now, they were watching his mouth, waiting for another small peep. They didn't have to wait long.

"….vis?...Ja…vis….lights…."

Bruce felt tears prick behind his eyes. Nat smiled a real, toothy smile and ran her fingers softly through Tony's hair. They both smiled wider when Tony leaned into her touch. He was waking up. The two avengers jumped slightly at a sharp intake of breath behind them. They turned. Steve stood, towel halfway through his soppy hair, watching Tony come back to life in front of his very eyes. His legs began to shake and he managed to get himself to the foot of the bed to hold on to the guardrail before he collapsed. He smiled brilliantly at Nat, then Bruce, breathing sharply, not sure whether to cry or cheer. From the corner, Barton resumed snoring.

Tony Stark would be just fine. They would all be just fine.

Thanks guys! Thats it for "A"! the prompt for Letter "B" will be out soon, i promise! and from now on, they will be oneshots, i swear, not as long as this one.


	3. B for Blunt Force

B for Blunt Force

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Hey everyone! Thank you for the reviews and the positivity :D here's the next chapter. This is one of those "Tony wasn't saving anyone, he was just being really careless" Tony Whump stories. Enjoy!

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AC/DC was blasting over the surround sound in Tony's shop. His black t shirt was soaked with sweat and grease, his hands were grimy, and his wrenches had dried spittle on them from being held in his mouth while he worked beneath his cars. It was a good day.

Tony had just finished installing the last of four JARVIS interface systems into his hot rods when his cellphone buzzed loudly on the countertop. One glance at the holographic caller ID had him smiling.

"JARVIS, put the good Lieutenant Colonel on speaker, would you? And turn down the tunes."

"Absolutely, Sir." Came the posh reply. In moments, "Back in Black" was nothing but a whisper in the background, and Rhodey's face was up on the screen.

"Rhodey! To what do I owe the pleasure of your fine visage upon my wall?" Tony smirked and planted his ass on the expensive red car-creeper. The wheeled cart, meant for lying upon to easily work under heavy loads, was soft under his tush – a welcome reprieve from the pavement he had been sitting on moments ago as he calculated out a parallel circuit. Rhodey smiled at the disheveled state of his oldest friend. Say what you want about Tony and his extravagant habits, but the man was never happier than when he was at home working with his hands.

"How are ya, Tony?" Rhodey's voice was light, but his voice was tense. Tony picked up on it right away. This wasn't exactly a nonchalant "just-checking-in-to-see-how-you're-doing" king of call.

"What's wrong, James."

Rhodes looked a little surprised, but his mouth set into a tight line. They had known each other for too long, there was no reason to be startled that Tony had noticed something was up. "Tony, it's not really a… well…I need your advice I need your help, really, and it's a little embarrassing."

Tony nodded, suddenly quite serious. He got up. "I'll get the suit on, Rhodey, one second."

"No, Tony, you don't need the-"

"What did you do this time, fly into a sanctioned air space? Drop a bomb on the wrong city?" Tony was rummaging around, looking for a fresh T-shirt.

Tony, this has nothing to do with the Air Force, its-"

"The Navy, then? I swear to God, Rhodey, as a taxpayer I would like to file a formal complaint concerning the lack of accuracy that our trillion dollar military has to offer-"

"Jesus Christ, man, I-"

"Nope, not Jesus, Rhodey, Just me. Though I suppose we're practically the same person if you look at-"

"TONY, DAMMIT, I WANT TO ASK NATASHA ON A DATE." Rhodey yelled exasperated over the phone.

Tony Stark, to his credit, said absolutely nothing. He just stared at his friend through the screen, absorbing his clear embarrassment and his obvious discomfort.

"I…I just…" Rhodes stammered on after a moment of stunned silence. "She's just really smart, and obviously beautiful, and I didn't know if she was…um…Seeing anyone? And I thought because you live with her that maybe you could put in a- a good word? And wherever she wants to go, ya know, umm, maybe dinner? And a walk, or-or a movie? I mean, I…I wasn't sure what she really liked to do in her spare time, so if you could just help…help a brother out?"

The silence continued. Rhodey felt a deep blush creeping under his already hot cheeks. Tony just stared at him, like a fish gaping for water.

And then he began to laugh.

Tony Stark started to giggle. _Giggle._ The poor Lieutenant Colonel got such an indignant look on his face that Tony started laughing even harder. Pretty soon, they were full out guffaws that had tears pouring down his face and a stitch in his side. His face hurt, his nose was running, he dropped to the floor and started rolling around, all the while trying desperately to communicate to Rhodey how sorry he was that he couldn't stop laughing, shooting him the most apologetic and pitiful looks from his brimming, crinkled eyes. Rhodey, shocked at first, just started to pout; but once Stark began snorting on the floor, Rhodey couldn't help himself. Against his own will, Rhodey started chuckling, shaking his head back and forth, not really sure how they got to this point. Finally, Tony started to die down, his outrageous bouts of laughter dissolving into those post-hysteria pained groans.

"Ohmygodrhodey," Tony slurred right before another groaning chuckle. "I-I'm really sorry, buddy I just," a slight hiccup, "You don't…You don't know what you just almost got yourself into." Another pained chuckle, Tony stayed on the floor, taking deep breaths with a glee-filled expression. "She would have eaten you alive."

Rhodey shook his head, admonished. "Yah, brother, I suppose you're right." And with that, he let out another chuckle. "If only, if only…"His voice was wistful, but accepting. "Well, on that note, what are you up to today?" With the two old friends, such a drastic change of conversation was completely natural and very fluent. Neither one even batted another eyelash at the notion that not five minutes ago, the colonel had practically expressed a death wish.

"Me? Oh, I'm just integrating JARVIS into the R8. I did the Bentley and the Tesla Roadster yesterday." Tony patted the car's bumper affectionately from the floor. "JARVIS will have permanent dibs on shotgun."

Rhodey nodded in appreciation. "Sweet. Hey, you should put one of those automatic smoothie machines in the dashboard." Tony laughed and shook his head.

"Rhodes, my dear man, if I was going to put a drink dispenser in a two hundred thousand dollar car, it sure as hell wouldn't pour me _smoothies_." The twinkle in his eye was clearly visible. Cheeky little shit.

"Alright, well, then I suppose you don't want to come with me for a night out, then?"

Tony looked pained, but his gaze settled on his cars. "Naw, Rhodey. I gotta finish tuning JARVIS' systems, making sure they run properly. The code will take another eight hours at least."

"That's too bad," Rhodey began. Now the pilot was the one with a twinkle in his eye. Tony noticed it immediately, and perked up, curious. "Cuz I managed to get two tickets to the Victoria Secret After Party at the 4 Seasons for 10 o'clock tonight, but if you're too busy, Tony, then I'll just take Barton or Rog-"

"NO!" Tony leapt from the floor, immediately willing to put off the code for another day. Rhodey laughed; Tony stark may be a reckless and spontaneous ass sometimes, but in so many ways he was so predictable.

Tony was on his feet in instant, shouting assurances over Rhodey's chuckles that he'd be ready to go by nine. The engineer was taking one, two steps backwards at a fast pace, his hands up and a smile on his face. He never saw it coming, but Rhodey did. The taller man's face fell from humor to alarm, his voice harsh and loud.

"Tony, watch out for the-"

 _CRASH._

Tony had stepped back too quickly, that third step landing his left foot directly on top of the car-creeper. The swiveling backboard slipped smoothly from beneath his foot, sending Tony catapulting back into the counter space of the workshop; the back of the shorter man's head connected solidly with the mounted cast iron vice that hung perpendicular to the corner of the table. Rhodey heard the sickening _thwack_ , and watched in horror as Tony crumpled to the ground, eyes closed, completely unresponsive.

"Tony! Dammit - TONY!" Rhodey stood on the other end of the line, so close to his friend yet so far away. He was on the other side of the city; it would take him no less than thirty minutes to get to the tower.

"JARVIS!" Rhodey shouted into the empty room. "JARVIS get someone down there **_now_**!"

"Yes, Lieutenant, I have already alerted every resident of the house and every one of Sir's close friends in a mile radius that Sir is in need of aid." The AI sounded polite as usual, but there was no doubt that somehow, even the AI's voice had a sprinkling of tension and concern. Rhodey relaxed a little bit, but didn't take his eyes off the unmoving form of his friend. JARVIS was better than a watch dog. Of course the computer had already called for help; his number one directive was to protect the creator – that creator being none other than Anthony Stark. Rhodey could remember giving Tony so much shit when he saw that line of code. "Really?" he had asked in awe of his friend's ego. "You're calling yourself The Creator? No God complex there, no sir, none at all." Tony had just laughed, calling him a _jealous jelly bean_ , if he remembered correctly. The quick flash of the memory left a bitter taste in Rhodey's mouth now as he sat silently waiting for someone to burst through the door in the basement and make sure Tony was alright.

After what seemed like ages, but couldn't have been more than a minute or two, Rhodey perked up at the sound of heavy footsteps sprinting down the stairs into the basement. JARVIS, against protocol, had left the door open, passcode be damned at a time like this. From the entrance emerged the star-spangled man, himself, Captain Steve Rogers. The alert must have interrupted his daily workout, because the man still had earbuds hanging from his neck and a slightly sweaty crew top clinging to his broad chest. The man's muscles were enviable, and Rhodey who never considered himself to be unathletic, felt himself pale in comparison. But now wasn't the time to be jealous, Rhodey mentally nagged himself. He had to let Steve know what happened.

Steve had just entered the workshop, took one look at a crumpled Tony and at the upturned car creeper and deduced as much as he needed to. After a split second he was over by Tony, laying him flat on the ground as gently as a mother would lay down her sleeping child. He pulled off his t-shirt and rolled it up underneath Tony's damaged head, not wanting it to be in contact with the heard concrete floor any longer than it had to be.

"Dammit, Tony," Steve huffed under his breath, but still loud enough for the phone to pick it up and make it audible to Rhodey, "What have you gotten yourself into this time?" the reprimand was not harsh at all. Instead, it was smothered in concern.

"Um, I can help with that." Rhodey waved awkwardly from the holograph against the other wall and Steve almost jumped out of his skin at the sound.

"Jesus- sorry, Rhodey, you just - dammit you scared me." Recovering quickly, the Cap added, "What the hell happened here?" gesturing to the unconscious Tony.

"Well, long story short, Tony and I were on the phone, he got up, slipped on the wheely-board-thing, and smacked the back of his skull on the table clamp."

Steve glanced over to the vice in question, following Rhodey's gesture. He winced in sympathy. It looked solid and sharp. The Captain's concern for his friend only grew.

"Do you think…Do you think he's ok?" Steve looked up at Rhodey with such huge eyes that Rhodey wasn't sure he was even looking at Captain America anymore. Instead, he saw the small kid from Brooklyn that always seemed to be forgotten when people sung the Cap's praises or recited his legends over and over. Steve was just like Rhodey, in this instance: a scared friend who felt absolutely powerless.

"Uh," Rhodey cleared his throat. "Steve, just check his eyes for me, ok? Are the pupils the same size? Do they react to light?" Rhodey paused while Steve carefully pried each one of Tony's eyelids open.

"They seem to be functioning…properly? Yes, Lieutenant Colonel, I think they're…I think they're fine. That's a good thing, right?" Steve's wide eyed stare returned to Rhodey's projected face, but this time brimming with a cross between stress and hope rather than despair.

"Yah, that's really good. Actually, way better than I thought." Rhodey took a deep breath, releasing tension in his shoulders he hadn't known he was holding. He ran a hand over his head. "Steve, look, if his pupils aren't blown and there's no blood coming through his nose or his ears, then he just knocked himself out. Just a little bit of blunt force. It's a miracle he's alright, but I wouldn't go rushing to the hospital yet. Besides, if Tony knows you brought him to the doctor, he won't speak to you for a week." Steve gestured his agreement with a small twitch of his lip. Tony hated hospitals more than he hated Brussel Sprouts - and he one time blasted Steve right in the ass with his repulsors ( _only on 20% for safety's sake of course, Steevie_ ) during a team training routine because the good Captain had dared to cook the repulsive vegetables for dinner the night prior.

Steve nodded, accepting Rhodey's advice as the truth. "Alright, then, James. I-I think I'll just take him upstairs, get him cleaned up a bit, and keep him on the couch where I can watch him, then. JARVIS? Monitor his vitals and let me know if anything starts getting even _close_ to not being right." The AI responded in assurance.

Rhodey addressed the computer this time: "and JARVIS, alert me immediately if Tony gets any worse or has to be transported to the hospital. Send his status updates every half hour to my phone."

"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel."

With that, the concerned pilot said goodbye to Steve on the phone, and with one last pained looked at his best friend he hung up, begrudgingly returning to work.

The blonde super solider carried the limp engineer bridal-style up the staircase of his workshop to the ground floor where they took the elevator to the Avengers suite. The living room was beautiful, all glass, overlooking the New York Skyline and, of course, with clear access to the Iron Man landing pad.

Steve held Tony tight, the whole time listening to the steady and peaceful breath sounds of the dark haired Italian, letting their consistency and strength comfort his own nerves. He laid the man on the large couch in the living room with incredible tenderness, bracing his head on either side with a two rolled blankets, immobilizing his neck just in case. He pulled a third blanket from his own room down the hall, spreading it across Stark's lower body and mid chest. He removed the engineer's work boots, placing them squarely at the foot of his makeshift bed, military style, out of habit. Steve fetched an ice pack from the fridge (one of many. Honestly, they needed another freezer just to hold the cold compresses) and laid it beneath the shorter man's head, slipping it under cautiously.

The blonde had just planted his ass in a chair by Tony's side of the couch when he heard an aggravated cacophony ascending in the elevator. As quietly as possible, Steve slipped from the chair at Tony's side and ran to the Elevator dock; he was ready to shush whoever the hell was making such a noise.

He wasn't prepared for the whole team to come stampeding out of the elevator and run him over.

Clint: "Where is he, he's not downstairs, I checked-"

Bruce: "Well he wasn't in my shop either, I just was-"

Nat: "I just got in from my run, do you expect me to know-?"

Thor: "WHERE IS MY FRIEND, THE MAN OF IRON, WHY DOES HE REQUIRE AID?!"

Steve: "STOP."

Steve pulled himself away from their angry mob, barely stopping himself from falling to the ground. In hindsight, he probably should have stood farther back from the doors. "Guys, guys," he whispered as loudly as one can whisper. "Tony is ok for now, he had an accident in the lab and nobody was down there to help. I already got him; he's sleeping on the couch." The urgency left the voices of his teammates, but the concern was still there. Immediately, but at least in hushed tones, they all began bombarding him with questions. Steve just rolled his eyes, grabbing Bruce. "Banner, you're the doctor. I gave him a quick up and down, but I need your opinion." And with that, he walked the scientist through a mixture of what he had deduced upon arriving at the scene and what Rhodey had told him. They got to Tony's bedside - er, couchside, rather- and Bruce began his walk through of Tony's responsive systems: pulse, pupil reaction, ear and nose check – he even lifted Tony's head slightly to get his fingers to the injury. The only thing he found was a rather impressive bump, but there was no bleeding, no skull fracture, and no signs of concussion.

"Well," Bruce stood. The others looked at him attentively. "I'm happy to report that there is nothing permanent, and nothing damaging." Bruce let out a small chuckle. "Tony just managed to, well, knock himself out."

Everyone smiled, relaxing. Clint was the one to break the silence this time. "I don't know about you guys," he began, a smirk growing on his face. "But I'm not gonna let him live this one down for a while."

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Tony awoke with a pounding headache, but no nausea and nothing to worry about. He vaguely remembered talking to Rhodey, stepping back, the sensation of falling…and then nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Suddenly, the memory struck him, filling him with urgency. _RHODEY. SHIT. THE AFTERPARTY._

Brown eyes shot open. "VICTORIA'S SECRET!" Tony yelled, sitting upright much too fast. His world spun, but settled back to normal very quickly. He glanced around, unsure of how he'd gotten to the suite, but uncaring. There were models that were waiting for his undivided attention and wealth. He checked his watch: it was 11:30, but he could still make it to the hotel for a good hour or two of long legs and short dresses if he hurried in the shower.

He threw back the blanket on his legs ( _woah, who put that there?)_ and swung his feet to the side of the couch. He smelled terrible, and his hands were black with grease. The models would not like that. No, no - not one bit. He sprung to his feet like lightening, took one fast step forward, and –

POOF!

Tony's foot landed on the same fucking bright red car-creeper that had sabotaged him in the shop, but this time when he flew backwards, he landed safely on the thousand dollar leather upholstery, sinking deep into the couch in a puff of cushions. He stared, unbelieving, and absolutely horrified.

 _How did it?…Who put it?...Whaaaaa?_

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

"GODDAMN YOU, CLINT."

And from the depths of Avengers Tower came a fucking giggle.

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Haha thanks guys, sorry if it's not an action-packed chapter. I kind of wanted to write some little ones where the team was just milling about Stark Tower. Please Review! I need more prompts!


	4. C for Cardiac Arrest

**C for Cardiac Arrest**

 **Okey dokey, my fellow mutants, here is Chapter "C". IM SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG, IM MOVING INTO UNIVERSITY, SUE ME. This is going to be very angsty with emotional talks and some really really really bad whump. Trigger warning for kind of main character death but not really. Phil will also be making a guest appearance. Thank you everyone who reviewed! Even the criticism –** ** _especially_** **the criticism! Like I said, these are my first few batches of Avenger's fics, and I don't want to be OOC, so I appreciate all the help I can get.**

 **ALSO IMPORTANT PLEASE TAKE NOTE I will be moving into college very soon, and my life is very hectic. I will try to get D (which is already finished) uploaded in a timely manner, and then you may not hear much of me for a week or two. Please forgive me. I'm trying to become edumacated.**

The debriefing room was abuzz with energy. Papers and files were being tossed around like confetti. Voices were raising and falling in cresting tides of tension, and those who had spoken them came and went just as quickly. World leaders were projected onto the wall, allowing them to literally look down and deliver their own feverous speeches and give sound to their uproar. SHIELD agents who were "in-the-know" sat, scared and listless, watching the executive chains of their organization behave like absolute animals. From what anyone could make out, at least seven different languages were being shot around the room like bullets. The visibly shaken translators were trying their best to handle the arguments, but eventually the German aid began to cry, quickly followed by Latvia – once Sweden left, the Chinese translator just sat down in the corner and curled up into a ball.

Captain Steve Rogers sat just to the right of the intimidating form of Nick Fury. The One-eyed man was standing at the head of the long, dark table. His single eye ablaze. He pounded his fist on the table, and raised it quickly up again to point accusingly at the live feed of the SHIELD intelligence supervisor.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN _'WE DON'T KNOW'_?! YOU'RE _JOB_ IS TO KNOW!" The man was shaking with barely controlled anger. In a normal day at SHIELD headquarters, an outburst like that from the Director would have had everyone freezing in spot, but today, it only escalated the conditions in the room. People began pacing; talking hurriedly into cell phones, going from hushed tones to demanding frustration. Everybody was trying to figure out what had happened - why everything had gone so wrong.

Steve remained in his chair. He looked at nothing but a small thread that was sticking out of his uniform. He plucked at it and played with it, just to distract himself. There was nothing for him here, anyway. He was here as a figure head – a bouncer, even, if things went horribly wrong in the conference room. Hell, he didn't know how much worse things could get at this point. This place was a zoo.

The poor Captain wanted nothing more than to get up from this uncomfortable swivel chair and go home – back to the tower, to be with his team. They should be together at a time like this. But no, he knew it was his duty to stay.

As a person, Stark always pretended not to understand honor and obligation. In fact, he had never missed a single opportunity to tease Steve about his own strict moralities. Steve closed his eyes, a bittersweet taste in his mouth. The truth was that Anthony Edward Stark was one of the most gallant and honorable men who ever walked the earth, but he would be the last one to acknowledge it.

For the first time all afternoon, Rogers lifted his head to take in the catastrophe that had been the debriefing room. Legal documentation was strewn everywhere, people were sitting in corners - anger, indignance, retaliation, and shock oozed from every speakerphone and screen. Everybody was trying to find out how it had happened - who had made the mistake. Was there a mole? Impossible, only 8 people had been privy to the route that was being taken – 6 of them Avengers. The other 2 were Phil Coulson and Nick Fury themselves. And how had their attackers had the capabilities to do…what they did? It had all come out of nowhere, nothing on the systems, no warning signs….

Steve returned his gaze to the stray thread on his leg. _Let them work._ He thought bitterly. _It won't do anyone any good, now, anyway._

Everyone was searching desperately for the answer to the million dollar question.

 _Who killed Tony Stark?_

 ** _48 Hours Earlier_**

Steve was dreaming of her. Kissing her bright red lips. Stroking her dark brown curls. Hearing her laugh, feeling her sizzling brilliance in his heart when she spoke. He could smell her shampoo, hear the rustle of her professional suits and the click-clicking of her heels.

Steve held her tight; they were the only two in the club. The music was slow, it was Saturday. The date that he had waited so long for happened every night in his mind. He could sway like this forever, doing nothing more than dance with her. Hearing her say his name over and over.

"Steve," he voice was a whisper. He held her tighter.

"I know, Peggy."

"No. _Steve_ ," she pulled away, suddenly. Harshly. Steve felt like he had been slapped.

"Peggy, what's wrong? Are you-"

"Steve, STEVE WAKE UP!"

Peggy's voice was deep and husky, her face morphing into…into…TONY?

"AHHHHH!" Steve shot up in bed, his chest heaving up and down, his eyes darting wildly around the room, settling on none other than the Man of Iron himself. Leave it to Stark to interrupt a perfectly good dream.

Needless to say, Steve was a little more than annoyed.

"Stark, I - what do you wa-"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MISS AMERICA!" Steve's mouth fell completely open as Tony pulled a tray from behind his back. Red, white, and blue pancakes, topped-off with maple syrup and a little American flag, sat atop the finest (aka, _least damaged_ ) plate from the Avengers' kitchen.

Tony had on his Cheshire-cat smile, ear to ear, absolutely face-splitting. His giddiness was contagious, and Steve couldn't help but laugh aloud in his bedroom.

Still shocked, he gratefully accepted the breakfast in bed. It really did look delicious. Steve was genuinely, incredibly touched, and he set the plate to the side before quickly getting up and catching the smaller engineer in a bear hug before he had a chance to escape.

"Yah, well, I just hope they aren't poisonous." Tony brushed himself off from the hug. "Dummy helped me make them – there's no telling what he might have put in there."

"I'll be on the lookout, then. If they taste awful I'll just feed them to Barton."

 _Thank you._

"True, he's practically the family dog, anyway. He even farts too much when Banner makes him eat broccoli."

 _Don't mention it._

With a few head scratches and mumbled excuses, Tony left the birthday boy alone to eat his pancakes. Steve would have liked him to stay, but he knew Tony too well. He hated accepting praise for anything. He would be much more comfortable now retreating to his workshop for an hour or two until Steve could resist the urge to thank him again. Steve smiled to himself. Stark was quite the character.

The platter was cleared in minutes. They really were delicious pancakes.

Steve threw on a plain t shirt and carried his dirty dishes out to the kitchen. He smiled at the television in the corner of the living room. Tash was neatly tucked in to a corner of the couch watching the Fourth of July festivities on the news channel. She found the patriotism incredibly amusing. Steve remembered hearing her say once that nobody did the "patriotism thing" in Russia. They just assumed you loved your country – otherwise, people would come for you.

Steve was drying his fork and knife, placing them into their corresponding drawer trays, when the alarms went off. SHIELD logos interrupted the broadcast on the television screen and all of the Avengers felt their special issued pagers vibrate on their wrists. Fury was calling.

Like worker bees to a hive, the team flocked with well-practiced fluency into the Tower's main space as the Director's visage popped up onto the telecommunications screen.

"Director." Steve stood at attention, his team behind him in various positions. Romanoff had risen seamlessly from the couch, standing only slightly behind the birthday boy. Barton had come in from the elevator in his sweats, the call having interrupted his personal training session with Banner, who looked much worse for wear. The Hulk might possess unmatchable strength, but Bruce himself was an average Joe. Clint had been working with him, starting the good doctor on weights and running cautious cardio – obviously, heart rate was a concern, but the fitness program had been going well. Tony had just come up from his shop, a single grease smudge on his forehead. Thor was half naked rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Even as Fury had appeared on the screen, The Norse God was more concerned with finding his new box of pop tarts than the Midgardian's orders.

Fury took in their appearances, one by one, in a split second. He couldn't help the small flicker of pride and satisfaction – he had really created the best team in the world. He couldn't live too long in the moment, however. He had a job to do, and so did earth's mightiest heroes.

"Captain." Fury nodded, putting the soldier at ease. The mutual respect was always evident in both their voices.

"What are our orders, Sir?"

Fury shifted slightly, squaring his shoulders. "The full debrief will be available in the files I'm sending over to the tower shortly with Coulson. Like myself, this transpondence will be short and sweet," Tony scoffed. Fury was a dry man, but his humor was still appreciable. "SHIELD needs a certain package delivered to a secure location. That package is a certain Doctor Clarice Brunet. She is the world's leading expert in bionic humanoid creation, nanobiology, and life support systems. As an organization, we don't exactly have a use for her at this point, but this isn't a game of capture the flag, Lady and Gentlemen, this is a game of Keep away. Our ears around the globe have picked up valuable Intel that an unidentified terrorist cell wants Doctor Brunet to create an army of cyborg soldiers, outfitted with regenerative capabilities and human-integrated weapons systems that would prove almost impossible to destroy without extremely drastic measures. We wish to avoid this. Doctor Brunet will be taken into SHIELD protection services to keep her out of the reach of this terrorist cell. It is your job to ensure that her escort reaches the facility safely, securely, and confidentially. Only 8 people know of this mission, and 7 of them are part of this conversation. Dr. Brunet has no idea where we are taking her, and she only knows vaguely why."

It was Barton who interrupted. "Director, who is the eight person with clearance?"

"Hi. That's me." Phil smiled his soft Coulson smile and stepped into the room. He passed each Avenger a file folder with the outline of the mission. He finished the distribution and looked to the screen. "Good morning, Director, and may I say: Happy Independence Day."

"Good morning to you as well, Phil."

Coulson then turned slightly to Steve, his voice a little tighter. "And, um, Happy Birthday to you, Captain."

"Thank you, Coulson. And please, like I have said before, just call me Steve."

"Right, yes. Happy Birthday, uh, Steve."

From across the room, Banner shared a teasing smile with Tony. They've all been working together now for almost two years and Agent Coulson still fangirls a little bit whenever he has to talk to the good captain.

" _Anyway_ ," Fury cleared his throat, clearly rescuing Coulson from further awkwardness, "Read up, team. You need to know this mission inside and out. No mistakes, no slip-ups, no excuses. And no security breaches. You speak to no one of this. Not even to each other – not until you're all reporting for the mission are any details to be discussed. Am I clear?"

All acknowledged their understanding.

"Good. I'm signing off." Almost as an afterthought, he added: "And good luck."

With that, Nick Fury disappeared from the screen. The news popped back on, the Red White and Blue decorations around the nation overpowering the broadcast. But Tash immediately shut it off. Even Tony and Barton were completely stoic. Each Avenger nodded to one another in silence and took their files to their respective spaces to be read, reread, and memorized. The folder contained instructions on the inside flap to report for duty at o-seven hundred hours the following morning.

 _It was gonna be a long night._

The landing strip at the SHIELD private air base was nipped with an early morning chill as the team stood on the tarmac. Each in full uniform, fully outfitted and prepared for whatever attempts may be made on the Doctor's well-being, they stood solemnly. They had read the files, they understood the cell they were up against. Even if everything went well, there was no telling what could happen afterwards.

They watched the stealth-jet land, its reflective "invisibility" panels retracting and its state-of-the-art repulsion engines landing softly and quietly on the ground. This mission was not about firepower or strength, it was about speed and secrecy.

That was clearly something that Thor was having a bit of trouble with.

"Why do we not face our enemies and attack? Ride out to meet them, put this intelligent woman above our armies in a golden chariot and taunt those who wish her for themselves until they are greatly angered!? Then there would be a great battle that could end heroically. I feel as a craven would, cowering from a villain I do not wish to confront."

"Thor, those aren't our orders. We are trying to avoid bloodshed." Steve seemed almost like a mother calming a bored child.

"But where is the justice in that, My Good Captain? Where is the valor? Are these men not evil? Are they not in the wrong? Did they not attack first?"

"Thor, this is not a – "

"No please," a warm, chocolatey voice with a slight accent interrupted the team's leader. "Let ze larger one finish. I especially liked ze part about putting me in a golden chariot and hoisting me into ze sky," the voice laughed, a beautifully chuckle lacking the vapidity of a high tinkling sound. "Comme un, _Trophy_ , oui? Zat is ze word?"

The whole team faced the voice – well, the woman, obviously, that had spoken. Stunning was a word – though it seemed lacking.

Her foxlike jaw structure was accented with intelligent brown eyes. Dark brown curls framed a manicured appearance and tapered nose. Her lips were full and her chin was strong but soft. High cheekbones hollowed her face, but she was far from rail-thin. Well curved, and knowingly seductive, this woman alluded confidence, sensuality, and brains.

Tash smirked and approached the woman, knowing they would get along famously.

Steve blushed, muttering a "how do you do".

Thor smiled wide, then thought of his own beautiful Jane and joined the good Captain in a deep red face, followed by downturned eyes.

Tony, knowing Pepper would kill him, allowed himself only a quick moment of appreciation before walking over and shaking her hand. He introduced himself in perfect French and initiated a conversation about his appreciation of her work in subsystems and mechatronics. She would be a good friend to have, if nothing more.

Bruce, on the other hand, was in love.

The poor man felt himself start sweating. He brushed his fingers shakily through his hair. _Oh god_ , he felt damp. Oh no, oh goodness gracious. Did he put on deodorant this morning? He had woken up late, he remembered shoving down a breakfast and brushing his teeth but deodorant was iffy – oh god, had he brushed well enough? Did his breath smell of stale coffee? A quick check… ok, he was fine on the breath front. Now, though – what to say. _Hello?_ Hello seemed good. _Hello, I am Doctor Bruce Banner. I specialize in gamma radiation and I turn green and destroy metropolitan areas when I throw temper tantrums._

Ok maybe not so specific. Maybe just hello. Short and sweet. He could do this.

Bruce was the last to make introductions, and he quickly wiped his right hand on his pant leg (just in case it was sweatier than he thought) and held it out for the introductory handshake. She took his hand and smiled. Oh god. It took his breath away, her smile. Perfect, full faced, reaching her eyes…the small crinkle right at the corner of those deep velvety brown pools…

"'Alo? Bonjour, I am Doctor-"

"BRUNET, YES I KNOW HELLO I AM BRUCE ALSO A DOCTOR. WE ARE BOTH DOCTORS. ISN'T THAT NIFTY? HELLO."

Bruce wanted to die.

Tony wanted to die for him, if his cringe was anything to go off of.

The French woman looked slightly alarmed and mildly confused. She muttered her niceties back to the now pained Dr. Banner, but was then promptly escorted by Coulson (who had stepped off the plane just behind her, not that anyone really noticed) to the awaiting SHIELD Humvee. The stealth-jet couldn't go where they needed. They were headed deep underground with this fine French flower. Literally. Underground.

The trek into the deep woods and the caverns was long and tedious. The Humvee drove at incredibly fast speeds. Coulson commandeered, and Steve sat shotgun. Widow sat in the backseat facing rear, never taking her eyes off the package who sat, oblivious, facing front behind the passenger seat. Bruce sat on the other side, reading through his memos, scribbling things. He had tried to distract himself from her presence, but every few minutes Tash would catch his straying glance. The French woman didn't notice his pining, nor did she notice the Russian's unfaltering gaze, as she was too buried in her scientific journals. Tash couldn't help but be reminded of Banner as Doctor Brunet absentmindedly pushed her reading glasses back up her nose and flipped through more pages of scrawled out notes on top of printed medical research. Bruce did the exact same only seconds later. They were certainly the odd pair.

Tony had eyes in the sky, his Mark X fully equipped for the same stealth technology on the jet. Thor was busy high above providing intense cloud cover for the mission. Barton, of course, was strapped to the roof, where he felt most at home. At least this time, he had agreed to actually let Natasha Strap him down.

They were at the mouth of the Caverns that would herald their dissension into the last leg of their journey to SHIELD's underground fortress, and at about the third hour of their journey, when the Humvee pulled over slowly to the side of the road. Nothing was wrong, there was no urgency to anyone's movements. Actually, everyone seemed quite bored. Absolutely nothing had gone wrong, nothing had come up, not a single attempt on anyone's life. It was quite a dull afternoon.

"Pee break," Coulson announced. Hey, even superheroes had to empty their bladders.

Agent Romanoff and Doctor Brunet walked quickly to tree cover while all the men politely turned the other way and used the other side of the road.

Barton had just zipped his fly when the static lifted the hairs on the back of his neck, followed quickly by the feeling of the air taking a deep breath in –

Then came the explosion.

The Humvee shot 40 feet into the sky, erupting in a ball of flames and smoke. Doctor Brunet, who had just cleared the tree line on her way back from the little girl's room, screamed loudly and clung to the visibly shocked Russian Assassin beside her.

After the initial surprise, the Team jumped into action.

"ROMANOFF, COULSON, BANNER, SECURE THE PACKAGE," Steve yelled forcefully over the crackle of the vehicle. "STARK, THOR, REGROUP, I REPEAT, REGR-"

The second explosion rocked the ground and threw Steve about fifteen feet into a solid pine tree by the side of the road. His head was spinning, partially from impact and partially from confusion – where were the missiles coming from? Were they even missiles? Nobody could have known their route, this shouldn't be happening – who was attacking them?

Steve groaned and got back to his feet. He glanced immediately to Dr. Brunet, relieved as he saw that she was unharmed and flanked on all sides by his team members. The familiar _clunk_ of the iron man suit landed five feet behind him, and Steve turned.

"Stark, what could you see?" His voice was a sad attempt at calm. Tony made no such attempts.

"Cap, I literally saw nothing. NOTHING. I don't know where it came from, no radar detection whatsoever, no heat tracking - nada. Zilch. This is top of the line, stuff, Steve; if the Mark X can't pick it up nothing can. I don't know what's coming next. Thor is on his way down, he's increasing our cloud cover and conjuring a nasty electrical storm to throw any enemy systems off…At least that's the hope."

Steve nodded his approval. True to his word, a distinct rumble came from the heavens, and above the gray overcast sky, they saw intense flashes of lighting shooting out above their heads. No rain fell, however. Steve silently thanked the Asgardian for not permitting a downpour. It's hard enough to fight enemies you can't see – never mind while slippery and cold.

After a minute of hypervigilance, no more attacks came. Maybe Thor had done his job well enough that whoever was attacking them was no longer able to pinpoint their coordinates. Coulson whipped out his secure phone and radioed Fury for aid. Cover be damned, they would reattempt the package delivery another time. A quinjet was on its way. Thank God.

Dr. Brunet was a scientist, and unlike the team's resident Doctor, she was not a hero. She was not stone-cold in the face of danger. Rather, she felt on the verge of a breakdown. Tash had tried desperately to calm her down, but the woman was jumbling her English. So, Tony and Tash switched places, and Tony was stoically comforting the shaking Frenchwoman in his perfect Parisian while Tash walked over to join Steve and Clint. She had just planted her hand on Barton's shoulder to wordlessly announce her presence when her ears perked up involuntarily. Something was wrong. She put her finger to her lips, signaling for the rest of the team to go absolutely silent. Nobody missed Natasha's cue, and the group fell silent. Even Brunet ceased her blubbering and resigned herself only to silently shaking.

The only sounds around them now were the sounds of the wood. Or, it should have been that way.

But the wood was silent. Completely. Not a bird, not a bug, not even a spastic squirrel. It was wrong. Something was wrong.

Tony saw the pencil sized rocket moments before it made impact. He pushed Doctor Brunet roughly into Poor Doctor Banner, who caught her in shock but then dropped her because he had no idea where to put his hands. The rocket missed the pair by half a foot, slicing the air where the woman's torso would have been, and lodged itself instead in a background tree. Steve, reacting with his super human reflexes, managed to stanchion himself in front of his fleet on his side of the road, consisting of Barton and Romanoff, as they curled up in balls on the ground. His shield like a blast barrier, they all had only a split second for shelter.

Tony did the same for his group, spreading his body as wide as possible and dropping to his knees in front of the two scientists who had also fallen protectively to the ground in behind the Iron Suit

The tree exploded.

Shrapnel shot out in every direction – pieces of wood so sharp they pierced what was left of the Humvee's bulletproof shell. Steve even felt his shield ringing with the bouncing chunks. They shot out at the vulnerable bodies faster than bullets and deadlier than knives.

Tony couldn't help but feel the fear clench in his throat. Explosions. Shrapnel. Pain. He was on the verge of having a flashback to the desert – the caves – the car battery hooked up to his chest. But he swallowed his panic. He would deal with those feelings later.

The shrapnel flew, but luckily nobody was injured. They all considered themselves immensely lucky that not a single splinter had found its way to their bodies.

Steve brushed woodchips off his shield. "Whatever they have at their disposal, its some serious firepower. Coulson, put a rush on that bird. We need to get out of here, and quickly before –"

And suddenly the Cap's shield was up, stopping yet another projectile. But this was no explosive, this was an arrow head.

That's why you can imagine everyone's surprise when the damn thing cut through Steve's shield like butter and pushed out the other side.

"HOLY HELL!" Tony would have followed his cry with more expletives, but was cut off by Steve's yell at everyone to retreat. They were sitting ducks on the road, and now they knew that the enemies had weapons that rendered Steve's shield absolutely useless. Tony's mind was racing, looking for an explanation. The one that his mind settled upon left a very bad feeling deep in his gut. Adamantium was the only explanation – it was the only substance on earth that was stronger than vibranium. Adamantium arrowheads and missiles would pierce anything. tony shot a glance at the Team's fearless blonde leader - Steve had never felt so vulnerable.

"RETREAT, SECURE THE PACKAGE. RETREAT." The team raced through the forest, just narrowly dodging the arrows that meant absolute death. All the while, everyone's mind was locked in the same thought: _How was this possible? SHIELD had contained all the adamantium on earth after the 3 mile Island fiasco with the mutants…who was behind all this?_

The team managed to outrun their invisible foes for almost five minutes before they heard the quinjet's engines. The bird lowered to the ground in a fair sized clearing, opening the boarding hatch so the exhausted teammates could finish their sprint and collapse inside. Despite being at the head of the pack, Rogers turned and waited for everyone to load on board, dodging near miss after near miss of the adamantium-tipped arrows that threatened almost certain death.

While the quinjet's hull couldn't take a shot from the arrow, the moment the docking bay door was closed, the force field on the aircraft would kick in and protect the occupants. Until then, everyone was in danger.

Thor was flying high above shooting lightening down to burn trees and ruin the enemy's sheltered vantage points. Tony was providing as much cover as he could for the team as Steve ushered them into the rescue ship. He was blasting shots blindly into the forest, scorching the foliage. _Sorry, Smoky the Bear, but I got bigger shit to worry about right now._

Tony was hurrying toward the quinjet, stepping backwards to never turn his back to enemy fire. Steve was calling him in. His shots were firing strong and true. Less and less arrows were being fired from the unseen terrors in the trees, he felt like he was winning. He turned to look at Steve.

He felt both of his feet land solidly on the docking bay. He felt the hydraulics begin to lift the door close.

He felt the quinjet begin to fly away, bringing them all to safety.

What he didn't feel was the adamantium arrow that pierced his chest plate and slide between his ribs right before the bay door shut and locked.

What he didn't feel was the slicing of his left atrium as his heart was cut clean in two.

What he didn't feel was his chest cavity filling with blood.

What he didn't feel was his body hit the ground.

What he didn't feel was the reverberating panic in Natasha's voice as she screamed his name.

What he didn't feel was the blood erupt from his mouth and nose.

What he didn't feel was the tears of Clint Barton fall onto his face as the archer knelt by his limp body.

What he didn't feel was the wracking sobs of Steve's chest as he held on to Tony for dear life.

Tony Stark died too quickly to feel a thing.

 ** _Back to present day_**

Steve got back to the Avengers tower late that night. But he didn't take any special care to be quiet as he slipped off his shoes and threw his keys in the tray by the suite's entrance. He knew nobody would be asleep.

Steve hung his jacket on the peg, closing his eyes and rubbing fiercely at the bridge of his nose, trying to pinch the fatigue and sadness from his face. It just made it worse, of course – every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tony lying there – lifeless eyes, limp body, and the blood – there had been so much blood.

With a bracing breath, Steve entered the common room. Tash was sitting on the couch. But this time, she wasn't tucked neatly and precisely. She was swaddled in blankets, staring at the TV – but it wasn't even on. Her face was blank, her gaze was absent. Steve was tempted to sit down beside her and offer a shoulder. But he knew her too well. She would mourn in her own way. For now, she needed to shut herself off.

Despite the many similarities between the two resident assassins, Barton was handling everything in the exact opposite way. Steve entered the kitchen to find the Archer sitting on the floor, the refrigerator door wide open. Clint's back was propped up against the fridge shelves. In his lap was a bucket of ice cream and a box of Thor's pop tarts. The archer looked up at Steve through bloodshot eyes, tears threatening at any moment, almost daring Steve to tell him off. Rogers said nothing. Barton silently thanked him and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the produce drawer and spooning another mouthful between his lips.

Thor had eaten nothing for the past two days. Not even a pop tart and a pint of coffee could tempt the Asgardian. Though, he was still somehow pleasant company, ready with a gracious smile or a grinning "thank you" to Coulson when he stopped by to drop off groceries. The Norseman even tried cracking jokes every few hours or so…but Steve would catch him when nobody was looking – the large blonde hero sat sullenly, silently. Eyes closed and chin quivering. The man of Iron had been a great friend to the Royal Warrior. Every night, Thor prayed to his father to give him an honorable seat in Valhalla.

Banner had buried himself in his work. Nobody had seen him come out of his lab since they got home. Frankly, nobody dared go down. Banner would be incredibly volatile. He had just lost his best friend. He would come up when he was ready, and not a moment before.

And then there was Steve. He was trying his best to hold on. He readjusted Nat's blankets. He left food trays outside Banner's shop and thanked God when they would be returned at least slightly nibbled on. He placed grocery orders for Barton, and he would sneak dissolvable nutrients into Thor's water, which was the only thing the Asgardian had yet to willingly consume.

But when everyone else was taken care of, and Steve would retreat to his room, he would run the shower and sob. He would sob for his friend. He would sob for his own failure. He would sob for Pepper. He sobbed for the look on her face when he told her, when she slapped him in shock. When the realization hit her and she collapsed, wailing at his feet, tears pouring from her betrayed eyes and her hands scratching so deep at her hair that she almost left bloody trails on her own scalp. She had been sedated by SHIELD medical and hooked up to an IV. Steve was grateful that she was at least getting fluids. She would not have been as accepting of the food he would have left her as Banner was.

So Steve sobbed. And he would run the shower until the water ran cold, and then he would jump in and let the shock of the icy impacts cover his body and give him an excuse for the tremors that wracked him. Then, he would crawl into bed and pretend to sleep.

 _One week later_

After day 4, Bruce came upstairs. He didn't say anything, he just stood at the top of the stairs, swaying slightly. They all stared in shock, unsure of what to say. Somehow, the sight of the doctor snapped Barton out of his own wallowing, and the archer left the fridge and led the good doctor to his room, holding him as gently as you would a baby bird. Barton got him cleaned up and shaved, Bruce all the while standing limply. Nobody teased them. Nobody jested lightheartedly at the fact that Barton had to bathe a fellow avenger. Bruce was a shell of a man. Clint knew how that felt.

When Bruce was in clean pajamas, Barton sat him at the kitchen table and made him chicken soup. This was what Barton needed – he needed to take care of someone else first to be able to take care of himself.

Everyone was shocked when Thor sat next to the small man and quietly asked, also, if he may have a bowl of soup. Barton smiled, a real genuine smile, despite how small it was, and answered, "of course. I'll grab another can."

"And…And me, Clint." And Natasha got up from the couch, though still tugging her blanket around her shoulders. It was still progress.

Steve sat down silently and looked around. Everyone was here, functioning to varying levels, yes, but functioning all the same. Barton quickly heated the canned soup and dished out incredibly generous helpings to each person at the table before he did so for himself and sat down.

It was strange, to all be at the table. Steve enjoyed watching everyone eat, and he was surprised at how hungry he was. Everyone seemed to have the same realizations, because pretty soon all bowls were empty and Barton was putting on more. They went through about 9 cans of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup before all were satisfied. They had just sat down again to finish the last bowl when Bruce picked his head up from looking down at his half eaten bowl.

His eyes locked on the seat that everyone hadn't even thought about. They had all been too preoccupied with their own thoughts about the person who was missing to really notice that _they were missing._

All eyes turned to the one empty chair at the table meant for 6.

Bruce's eyes welled up with tears, but he didn't lose it, this time like they thought he would.

Instead he spoke.

"Y-you guys remember that time," his voice was gruff from days of silence. "That time that Tony rigged that face recognition software Fury's office? How he synchronized it with that mounted robotic nerf gun to shoot Coulson every time he walked in?"

Everyone at the table cracked a smile, and they thought fondly upon the many antics of Tony Stark.

Barton was next. "Remember that goddamn fart machine he built into Maria Hill's command chair? H-He," The archer was starting to chuckle. "I'll never forget h-her promotion ceremony, when she sat down in the Lieutenant's seat and the whole room was fucking silent and the moment her ass touched the cushion i-it just let out this god awful sound, and I-I" the man was lost in laughter, and he wasn't alone. Thor's rumbling drowned out any continuation of the tale, even if Clint had been able to get the words past his giggles.

"No, but the worst part about it," Nat was also laughing as she recounted, "Was that Tony, the bastard, rigged it into the surround sound in the control room, and i-it echoed off of ev-everything!" Bruce had his head in his hands, his laughter was shaking his whole body. Barton was wiping tears from his eyes, not from grief, but because his face hurt from smiling so hard. Steve shook and he clutched his chest.

"No, no" Steve tried to swallow past his words, "B-But do you remember Maria's face, though? Her face?" His voice cracked up an octave with the effort of squeezing out words.

The whole team stopped trying to conceal any sense of decency they had left. They doubled over. Thor's elbow accidentally landed in his soup bowl, and that set them all laughing even harder. They all felt absolutely terrible, here they were pissing their pants laughing _days_ after their friend's untimely death.

But holy hell, he had done some funny shit.

Their guilty laughs were in full swing when a familiar, but haggard voice, chimed in from the elevator dock.

"Wow, assholes. It hasn't even been a week yet and you're already over me? I guess I'll just leave you to it, then."

Silence. Dead Silence.

Or….Not…Dead…Silence.

Steve's eyes went wide. Barton almost shit himself. Thor looked scared. Natasha looked fierce. Banner almost collapsed.

"Well, are you going to offer me soup or am I just supposed to sit here and watch everyone else eat while I waste away?"

A scruffy-chinned, thin, exhausted, and sickly looking Tony Stark took filled their doorway, seated gently in a wheelchair, flanked on one side by Nick Fury, and on the other side by Doctor Brunet.

Nobody moved.

Until Steve couldn't take it any longer.

"YOU BASTARD!" Steve screamed, but it was more of a gasp. Steve couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. What- what was happening? He hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but at the same time he didn't care. "IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU? WAS THIS JUST ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR PRANKS?" Steve immediately felt guilty, but at the same time, he felt so damn hurt.

Tony's eyebrows shot up to his scruffy hairline. "That wasn't exactly what I was expecting." Taking in his team's complete shock, Tony turned to Dr. Brunet, who was slightly uncomfortable at the situation. Brunet met his gaze.

"Oh, oui," she began, hurriedly. She was trying to get everything in before the team came back to their senses and started panicking. "Monsieur Stark was very badly wounded in ze accident." She paused. "Well, non, ok, oui, yes. _He did die_ , Capitán." She shot a sorry look at Steve. "Zat was no joke."

Steve immediately cast his gaze down, feeling absolutely terrible.

" _However_ , weeth my extensive work in repairs to ze human body and nanoscopic surgeries, an advancement far beyond zat of ze _laparoscopic_ sense, we were able to place your friend in hypothermic hibernation, release worker nanobots into hiz chest, repair hiz cardiac system, and return him to hiz full health." She was obviously very pleased.

"Yah, I went through that and all I got was this puny little scar! Can you believe it? The injustice of the thing..." Tony sounded very disappointed as he pulled his collar down to reveal a very small slice just to the right of his sternum where the nanobots had been inserted.

Still, nobody moved.

"Ok, guys, seriously. Dammit. I died. I'm sorry." Tony was growing more and more upset and angst-ridden in his wheelchair by the second. "I'm really sorry my heart stopped and I died. I hate to be an inconvenience, I really do. Could somebody please talk to me because I'm just as freaked out as you are, and I only woke up about two hours ago and the first thing I demanded was that I go home and make sure you were all okay, which obviously you aren't, so PLEASE SOMEBODY TALK TO ME."

It was a plea, and it sounded just as broken as they had all felt only minutes before.

In an instant Nat had thrown off her blanket and was crouched on the floor in front of Tony's chair. In another instant, her hands were cradling his face with a gentleness she had never before displayed.

"Moҋ дpyr…" She whispered. And she embraced him. Tony was shocked, at first, but then he quickly brought his weak hands up to her back returned the short embrace. One by one, each avenger joined the hug. Bruce on shaky knees wobbled over to his best friend and almost fell into his lap, but managed to wrap his arms around his shoulders ever so gently and bury his face in Stark's neck. Thor came over with a bound and lifted Tony Clear out of the chair, but so softly and gently, Tony hardly knew he was upright. Now erect, the rest of the team joined Thor in the standing group huddle.

And so earth's mightiest heroes held onto their friend, and they held on with a ferocity.

They had lost him once. They would not do so again.

 **Ok that was some serious, heavy fic. Next ones will be shorter and lighter, I swear. Sorry for the main character death there, but he wasn't REALLY dead so…please don't hurt me I'm sorry I know it was cruel but hey, you signed up for this.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT! Too much, too little, you gotta let me know. You guys are the best critics.**

 **By the way, Nat said "My friend…" In Russian, in case you were wondering.**


	5. D for Drowning

**D for Drowning**

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 **Hey cupcakes, thanks for the feedback! I'm flattered by all the follow and favs. Here's the next installment in the series, please continue to review! I'm looking for more prompts!**

 **Like I promised, this one will be a little fluffier.**

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It was a beautiful November morning in Manhattan. The sky was clear, though grey. The ocean was churning. The air was heavy with the threat of snow.

Agent Natasha Romanoff was enjoying the crispness of the air. Her lungs rose and fell steadily, her focus was intense. Her earbuds sat securely in her chilly ears. They didn't dare fall out.

She always enjoyed the gentle cold of late autumn in America's northeast. It reminded her of her childhood, when school would start in September in Russia and snow was only weeks away. That had been so long ago…when she was so young. That was before they had chosen her, before she had been taken.

Tash brought her attention back to her run. Her sneakers hit the pavement at a steady pace, drumming out the tempo to match the song that had come up on shuffle. She rounded the last block of her jog just as the morning sun was starting to beat down on her back. Delicate sweat beads trailed down her nape and collected in the sweatband of her baseball cap. She felt content as the tower came into view, feeling the familiar self-satisfaction that every runner gets at the conclusion of their route.

She entered the base lobby, waving quickly to Happy who stood at attention with the other security guards in the lobby. The secretary at the main desk nodded to Tash as the elevator doors opened, and smiled politely. Punching in her security code to the elevator, the Black Widow watched the doors close and she felt the familiar shift of the elevator car as it switched off the regular track onto the Avenger's access track that was reserved for Team members and SHIELD officials – and Pepper, of course.

After a quick ascension, the car slowed and the doors opened with a quiet _ding._ She stepped out, peeling off her hat and untying her laces. She put her shoes on the mat next to Barton's boots and hung her cap on a peg by the door. It all felt incredibly domestic. It had taken the superspy and assassin a while to adapt to the stationary lifestyle here in Manhattan – not stationary in the sense that nothing happened (on the contrary it seemed like every week heralded a new global threat); It was stationary in the sense that, well, she lived in _one place_. She had a home – a permanent one. It was scary and wonderful all at the same time, and after years of living out of a bag, it had been nice to fill a bureau.

Stark was just shuffling out of his bedroom as she entered the kitchen, rubbing his hands over his groggy face. He had one sock on; the other foot was bare. His hair stuck out in every direction and his stubble was at an impressive length. His eyes were still a little blurry and he definitely needed to brush his teeth, but all in all, it was an endearing sight.

"Mornin'," The engineer gave her a squinty grin and trudged to the coffee machine. Tash was at the Brita drinking her second glass of water.

"Good Morning, Stark." She finished her glass, placing it into the sink.

"Nice day? Good run?" He was searching the cabinet for a filter.

"Beautiful day. It's getting colder, for sure. High possibility of snow within the next forty-eight hours."

"Huh," the engineer nodded. "That's good then. Rockefeller Center will look even nicer when there's a good dusting."

"I agree."

The lack of substance in such early morning conversations used to annoy Natasha. Now, however, she admitted with only a little embarrassment that she rather enjoyed the small talk. Maybe she really was being domesticated…and it wasn't all that bad.

By noon, the team had finished a few SHIELD issued training courses and everyone was planning on going out for a late lunch. It was technically Thor's turn to choose the food, but since he had returned to Asgard for an indefinite political assignment, the choice fell to Barton.

At around 2 pm, the team was all showered and dressed to go out to one of New York's most popular barbecue joints: Round Up. The unofficial motto of the place was: If you can kill it, we can cook it. They served everything: cow and pork, of course, but also venison and veal and buffalo - and for a very special price, moose.

So, thirty five minutes after ordering, Tash had a lean turkey burger on her plate, Steve had a massive BLT, and Banner was too busy holding a stopwatch between Barton and Stark to enjoy his own freshly made kabobs.

Tony and Clint sat on opposite sides of the table, both staring down at their own personal "Round Up Canadian Challenge 42 oz. Moose Steak" that they each had ordered just for this moment. A competition: who could finish the most meat in the shortest time?

They had laid down ground rules, of course, about drinking and sides and vomiting (which was an automatic forfeit, by the way). Despite having told them they were both idiots, the whole team was secretly looking forward to the match.

"I hope you took a good shit this morning, Stark, cuz you're gonna be stuffed from your throat to your colon." Barton had an absolute devilish smile on his face.

"Yah, well, you need the protein, birdbrain. It'll help you build some bulk in places where there isn't much of anything," and with the steak knife in his hand, he pointed oh-so-not-discreetly to the archer's crotch.

"Why you little – "

"Well, what did you expect? Running around in tight leather pants for all those years had to cause _some_ shrinkage, I mean its science! Did you kn-"

Banner did them all a service and clamped his mouth over Tony's hand. "Let's go you two, enough smack talk. The next thing that comes out of those mouths is moose, you understand me?"

The countdown began.

"Ok, here we go," Bruce looked at his watch and prepared to hit the button. "In 3…2…1…EAT!"

45 minutes later, Tony was absolutely green with nausea. His hands were shaking. His tongue and jaw were so sore he couldn't move anything above the neck. He had to keep his eyes closed to direct the next forkful into his protesting mouth. He was hallucinating his dead Italian grandmother. Her voice was in his ear: _"Mangia, Anthony, Mangia!"_ This was true hell.

Barton…well, Barton was a mess. He was making Tony look like a competitive eater. Barton had the meat sweats. His face was clammy, his hand and mouth were covered in steak sauce. He'd barfed into his mouth a while ago, and Tony had tried to call him on a forfeit; but the Archer, much to his own credit, had looked Stark straight in the eye and without flinching, swallowed it back down.

It was disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.

And it was really damn entertaining.

But now, both men were hardly in any condition to continue. Clint had just resigned to chewing the same piece for the past five or so minutes. He was done, and whether or not he would admit it, so was Tony.

Finally, it was the Russian who spared their lives. "Alright, boys, that's enough." And before they could sluggishly protest, Tash grabbed their plates. She wasn't mad, which was clear by the disgusted smirk on her face, but she was absolutely right. They were done. A quick look at the platters and it was obvious that Tony had out-eaten Hawkeye, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Tony raised his shaky hands above his head. "Yusssss," he formed the words past a mouthful of meat. "I…am…the victor…." He groaned and put his head down on the table.

Barton just watched Tash take away his plate and let out a very pitiful _Thank you_ that made Rogers and Banner laugh. The redhead just smiled and patted him on the back – which was definitely not the jarring motion that he needed, because the Archer gagged a little and ran to the bathroom.

Romanoff watched Barton stagger off and she shot another pitying look at the sedentary Tony Stark.

 _My Boys…_

 **Later that night**

"No thanks, guys. I really have to finish this new model study I'm doing. Maybe next time."

"Sure thing, Brucey. Hey, you text me and let me know how that mock up is going. I want full read outs of the preliminary stress tests and dynamics analysis." Stark clapped Banner briefly on the shoulder.

"Sure thing, Tony." And the doctor retreated back into his lab, searching absentmindedly for his pencil that he didn't realize was stuck behind his ear.

Tash had insisted that Hawkeye and Iron Man try to go for a walk tonight to _begin_ to work off the several pounds of meat they had gorged themselves on earlier in the afternoon. Barton, who was still mad at Stark for winning the challenge, insisted that Natasha at least accompany them so he wouldn't be stuck alone with "buckethead." At this point, with the three of them going, Steve had decided to tag along as well.

It wasn't often that the team members got to just casually stroll through New York. Every corner held a memory, good and bad, of battles or accidents - and even some normal events like a good hot dog vendor or a favorite street performer. For Steve, it was a lot more. He would ramble on about buildings and architecture from the 30's and 40's, talking about people who used to live Southside, or certain streets and developments that were special to him. The rest of the crew enjoyed hearing him talk about it, as he never opened up much about his past life.

They walked for a good forty-five minutes in one direction, sweater collars up and hands in pockets: chatting, discussing, debating. It took all of ten minutes for Barton to forget he was still sore about losing, and soon he and Stark were tossing ideas back and forth about a new design for his arrow heads.

The wind was nipping at their ears and noses, but short respites in crowded cafes along their walk warmed them up again. They had all agreed that they would make it to the pier and then turn around. It was a long walk, for sure, but it was in good company.

They reached the pier at half past eight. The ocean waves swelled up to the side of the docks and mooring, crashing noisily but predictably on the breezeway's concrete slabs and giant boulders. The breakwater was loud, but relaxing in only the way an ocean can be. The waves were the heartbeat of the sea, the blood flow of the world.

They all leaned against the sturdy wooden posts and gazed thoughtfully into the black water. The sunlight was scarce at this time of the year, and it was already dark. The moon, however, shone a path across the water and lit the bay area well enough that the harbor was clearly outlined.

Steve sniffled slightly, the cold making his nose run, and Tash wordlessly handed him a tissue from her pocket. He accepted it.

A stray cloud rolled over the moon, casting them all into grey darkness. If it weren't for the odd lamppost on the pier, they wouldn't have been able to see a thing. The radio silence was pleasant for the team, and they all reveled in the peace of the moment. Barton smiled to himself and hung his head against the nipping breeze coming in off the ocean. The breeze was causing a small crinkling sound against his hearing aids, like wind running over the receiver of a telephone. He turned to put his back to the wind.

What his keen eyes found at the other end of the pier caused him to gasp and stiffen.

"Oh, god." Barton's voice was incredibly strained and quiet, but it caught the attention of the whole team who had been looking in the opposite direction to which he had just turned.

"What? What's wrong? Clint?" Steve was in hyper vigilance mode.

"Wh- what do we do?" and Hawkeye pointed.

At the opposite branch of the large dock, a man stood shakily, obviously weeping, unbalanced on one of the posts. His loosened tie was blowing back into his face, and his shirt was untucked and soiled. He had his arms out. His shoes, wallet, and expensive jacket were folded neatly on the planks. He was going to jump.

"Sir!? Sir, no!" Tony was already running to the other end of the pier, the rest of the crew on his tail.

"Wha-?!" The man turned around. He stank of booze and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying. He took in the group of strangers and waved them off.

"Jus' lemme do it." Another small sob wracked his body. "You don' understand. She left me. She left me and she took m' kids and they're not ever, never comin' back." The man buried his face in his hands and swayed dangerously on the post. The whole team was on high alert.

It was Nat who spoke next. "Friend, what's your name?"

He looked at her warily. "M- m'name i-is Henry…Henry McDouglas."

"Ok, Henry, well why don't you come down from there and we'll buy you a hot cup of coffee and talk this over, ok? We can help, I promise, but you don't want to do this, Henry." And Nat took a hesitant step forward. Her advance sent Mr. McDouglas into hysterics.

"DON'T!" Henry screamed, flailing, making his position on the slippery and almost icy pier even less stable. "DON'T COME ANY CLOSER! I'LL JUMP! I'LL DO IT, - I SWEAR!"

Nat quickly retreated, but her face was as stoic and focused as ever.

Steve spoke next, keeping his hands in front of him. "We know, Henry. You can do what you want, you have all the control here. We just want you to come down and talk about it first. We won't try anything, I promise. Do you know who I am? Who we are?"

Henry just looked confused and slightly wary. "Should I?"

"I'm Steve Rogers, you might know me as Captain America. This," he gestured to Barton, "Is Hawkeye. These are our other teammates, Iron Man and Black Widow. We're the Avengers. We are here to help. Will you please talk to us? I'd really like it if you would come down from there."

The man looked shocked. "Well holy shi'," he muttered. "Here I am try'n' ta kill m'self and fuckin' Cap'n 'merica and his team show up." The man thought about it for a moment. "Ok, yah, 'k, I'm, um, I'm gonna come down now, 'f that's ok." Then almost as an afterthought: "Tha' water looked really fuckin' cold, anyway."

"That's great, Henry, that's just great." Steve smiled, let out a breath and his shoulders sagged. Henry moved to climb down. The tension as fading from the air, and the team visibly relaxed.

But that's when Henry slipped.

Wordlessly, the drunken man toppled backwards into the churning dark sea. Steve rushed forward to catch him, but caught nothing but a face-full of the side rail. He was milliseconds too late.

"BARTON, CALL 911. GET A PARAMEDIC HERE FAST."

Steve was stripping off his heavy coat getting ready to jump into the water himself when a second splash sounded only moments after the first one. Steve leaned over the side, straining to see. And there, bobbing up and down, searching for the lost civilian, was Tony Stark.

"DAMMIT, TONY!" Steve was more than frustrated. That water had to be near to freezing temperatures. Steve would have been fine. He was always an oven; the super serum had his body running at excessively high temperatures. Tony on the other hand was painfully human. He could succumb to a number of things: fatigue, hypothermia, hypoxia… the list ran through Steve's head. But sense told him that one rescuer in the water was enough. Stark would be fine…. He better be fine.

Steve took his eyes off the water for a minute, and looked back at the other teammates. Barton was speaking curtly and pointedly into his cell phone, giving locations, counts, and coordinates. Steve gave him clearer directions, his extensive knowledge of the city proving painfully useful. Natasha was backtracking, dashing down the pier. She was going to wait near the beach by the water's edge for the two men when they emerged. Steve called her back, throwing his own jacket and Henry's discarded blazer into her hands to wrap the two up if they made it to the beach before paramedics arrived with blankets. She nodded, accepting the items, and pivoted back towards the shore, returning to a full sprint.

Steve was comforted by their action plan, and returned his gaze to the water to see – nothing?

Why was there nothing? Where were they? WHERE WERE THEY?!

And suddenly – there, a bobbing head, but not Tony's calm and focused head, not his heroic and intent head, but a drunken mess yelling and begging for help, panicking and flailing. That head. Was he... Swimming? No, it wasn't the right kind of flailing. He was… clinging. He was clinging to Tony for dear life. Not only was he clinging to Tony, but he was trying to use the sober man as a flotation device. Dread filled Steve's stomach as the scene played out before him. The man was pushing Tony under the water, trying desperately to stay afloat for his own sake, but thoroughly drowning his rescuer.

"TONY!" Steve called out down to the men twenty feet below him. He craned, watching Tony attempt to free himself of the larger man's panic-induced iron grip. Steve knew he had no choice now. He had to go in too. With his enhanced hearing, he could detect the faint sound of the sirens getting closer and closer to the pier, but they were still at least two minutes away. He only hoped they would arrive in time.

And with that, Steve Rogers willingly dove into the icy ocean waters…

… For the second time in eighty years.

* * *

Tony had a directive: save Henry, the poor bastard.

Stark had remained fairly silent during the interaction with the suicidal father and now-ex-husband. He couldn't trust himself to speak. Too many times had Tony been that close to throwing himself into oblivion. Depression was a nasty piece of business, and sometimes, well…even Avengers have those moments of weakness.

Stark had watched the team relax when Henry began his descent, but Tony was strung too tight to do so. He knew the moment they first spoke to Henry that this was not a man who really wanted to die. So when his footing slipped and the slightly overweight drunkard fell backwards, Tony knew he had no choice. He ran and jumped without any hesitation, landing a perfect dive into the briny depths below. Henry had surfaced for a few seconds before thrashing downwards into the water. He obviously wasn't an Olympic swimmer. Tony dove deep and wide, searching for a warm body. Henry had clung to him then, about ten feet below the surface. His grip was tight and Tony was actually grateful – it made kicking and hauling him towards air that much easier.

But then he didn't let go, and he didn't stop thrashing.

Stark tried desperately to calm the man down. "Stop, Henry, stop!" Tony was getting mouthfuls of water for his efforts as the man splashed and tugged at him. The engineer was coughing away the brine, reaching to halt the man's movements, but Mr. McDouglas was too panicked and confused to realize what was going on. Henry was hyperventilating, reaching desperately for a solid land that was still a hundred yards to their left with a signaling Natasha waiting for them. It would have been an easy, albeit freezing, swim if Henry had just cooperated, but fear was building in Tony as the heavier and taller man that he was rescuing began to significantly push him under. Pretty soon, it was Stark who was gonna need rescuing. Tony tried to kick away, spinning and thrashing himself, but Henry's grip grew and grew until it was painful. Tony tried diving down and going deep until Henry would let go, but the man would scream and dig in with his fingernails, wrenching Tony back up to the surface where he would get a split second to breathe before Henry was on top of him again. If the engineer had had enough time in the air or enough breath, he would have called out for help from his team, but he hoped and prayed that they would recognize his struggle and come to his aid unprovoked.

Tony twisted away once again and brought his head up to the surface. He gulped in a huge breath before Henry regained his steadfast grip and pushed down on Tony's neck with his entire shoulder and upper body. Stark was now being effectively pinned beneath the other man with a large hand covering his jaw. Only a foot from the surface, but a distance had never seemed so far.

Tony needed to breathe, he needed air. The cold was sapping his energy, and his heartbeat was growing erratic. The water threatened his nostrils and clouded his vision. This rescue was not going to plan. In a last ditch effort, Tony kicked out wildly at Henry once more. The poor man screamed loudly and beat his legs out to silence Tony's efforts, landing one solid sucker-punch into Stark's submerged gut. It knocked the wind out of him, and the instinctual pull back of air after such a hard hit was too powerful for Tony to override. His diaphragm retracted and drew in a gulp of nothing but seawater.

The cold ocean filled his lungs and stray bubbles escaped Tony's nose. He let out one last violent spasm, but other than that, the Avenger went absolutely still. A haze surrounded him, both mentally and physically. The water didn't seem quite so cold anymore. It was almost nice. His lungs didn't scream for air, his throat didn't burn. It was almost like falling asleep.

Ton's eyes were flickering closed when he felt the weight of Henry leave his body. Ten seconds later, without anything to hold him near the surface, Tony felt himself sinking. Deeper and deeper he fell, so slowly and gracefully. It felt like a ballet as he floated through the water. It was so quiet down here, so peaceful. Tony's sluggish eyes cast one look at the surface; only the moonlight was penetrating the water's edge. He lazily judged his depth at about twenty feet, now. Nobody would be bale to see him down here. He would just sink to the bottom of the sea and stay there. His eyes closed.

 _I hope they don't ship Dummy to MIT. He deserves better than that…_

That was Tony Stark's last thought before a solid mass hit the water. The underwater vacuum it created sent a loud echo throughout the bay that reached Tony's ears, making his eyes shoot open. He watched the dark shadow of the shape hesitate near the surface, spinning in each direction, before locking onto Tony's location. the engineer continued his slow descent as the shape came nearer and nearer to him; suddenly, the dark body was upon him, and two warm, large hands grabbed Tony around his stomach and ripped him upwards toward the surface, kicking frantically.

Tony felt his face break the water tension of the surface, and he felt the cold biting air nip at his face, but Stark didn't have the energy to cough, to breathe. He was on the verge of consciousness, slipping faster and faster away until… _SLAP_.

Tony's head was smacked to one side and his eyes flew open in panic and more than just a tad of indignance. His chest instinctively heaved and he began to spew lungful after lungful of disgusting dark water and bile up his throat, all over the shoulder of _– Steve?_

"Oh, thank you, God." Steve Rogers took one look at Tony's aware and breathing face and he clung to the smaller man with all his might, comforting himself in the knowledge that he hadn't been too late. Steve was treading water easily for the both of them, his blonde hair plastered and wet, sticking to his forehead and leading droplets to dribble on his nose. His breath come out as fog over the cool water and his eyes were searching Tony's face for recognition and a sign that the engineer was alright.

Tony made eye contact amidst his terrible wet hacks, but successfully drew in haggard breath after haggard breath between his fits. Steve held him upright over his shoulder with one hand and used his other arm to swim them into shore. Steve was shivering slightly from the cold, and the fact that Tony wasn't shivering at all was not a good sign. The brunette's lips were blue and his whole body was snow white. He needed to get to dry land immediately.

"H-Henr-ry?" Tony's throat was raw and crackling. The sound of it made Steve wince.

"He's fine, Tony. Barton threw him down a life jacket from the pier after I jumped in." Steve said between breaststrokes. "I ripped him off of you, strapped him in, and pushed him towards shore. Nat picked him up. He's getting checked out by EMTs now." True enough, the flashing lights on shore blinded the two swimmers.

"'m glad…he's ok…"

"Hm," Steve's jaw tightened at the thought of the man who had tried to drown his teammate. Tony noticed.

"D-Don't be mad - wasn't h' f-fault."

"I know, Tony, I just…."

"I know…"

Steve covered the last thirty yards to the beach in record time, noticing as their swim progressed that Tony was growing more and more silent. He tried to keep the man talking, but to no avail. Panic grew in the soldier, and the moment Steve could touch the silty bottom, he had Tony up and in his arms bridal style, sprinting through the water. He reached the beach, his thighs burning and his lungs heaving, but determined to get Stark to medical.

Tony was laid gently onto an awaiting stretcher, and an oxygen tank was hooked up to his face. The man's eyes were struggling to stay open, and his chest was still heaving slightly. Steve drew a hand across his face in worry. Nat came up behind him and draped a fluffy dry blanket over his shoulders, no doubt from the EMTs. A similar shroud was wrapped tightly around Tony's sopping wet and hypothermic body. The ambulance with Henry had already left.

A paramedic approached Steve, but was waved off. Steve could already feel his body warming itself back up again. Barton emerged from the back of the ambulance with a thermokit, strapping the hot pack to the neck board, trying to heat Stark's main arteries. Tony needed to leave. He needed to get to the hospital.

The ambulance workers loaded the now unresponsive hero into the back and, sirens blaring, flew to the emergency room. Steve, Nat, and Barton stood in their tracks. They had walked here; they had no car to follow the ambulance. Fear was at the back of all their throats. Barton called Banner, and after less than thirty seconds on the line, the call was over. Bruce was on his way. He was coming to pick them up.

* * *

Tony could feel himself resurfacing to consciousness. It had happened a few times here and there, he knew that much, but never long enough for him to learn anything about what was happening in the conscious world. He had no semblance of how much time had passed between each of his attempts at lucidity, but he didn't really care. His mind was fuzzy and sluggish, but this time felt different. He felt like he was really coming around. His eyebrows scrunched, his tongue ran along the roof of his dry mouth – yup, he was definitely waking up this time, even if it was just to get a cup of coffee.

Tony mustered up all his focus and energy to pry his eyelids open. They resisted, but much to his credit, he managed to force them into half-squints that allowed some light to pass through. The hospital room was dark. Only gentle lights from the hallway permeated his little cave of warmth and healing. Tony usually hated hospitals, but he could clearly remember the cold – the agonizing bone-deep chill that the doctors had magically cast from his body. He gave a small shiver at the very memory of the sensation. Mr. Stark couldn't stay mad at the group of doctors who had made him so nice and toasty warm after such an _inconvenient_ dip into Hudson Bay.

Tony gave a whimsy of a thought to Henry's well being, but then remembered what Steve had assured him of – he was alright, probably much better off than Tony was at the moment.

The dark haired engineer gave a small stir, testing his fingertips and his toes, before slowly clenching and unclenching his muscle groups. He tested all the way up his body, from his ankles, to his knees, to his thighs, to his midsection and his arms, and then his neck and face. Everything seemed to be in working order. That was good.

The urge to sit up and steady himself was too great for such an independent mind, and he quickly set upon the task, squirming his shoulders and setting his jaw. All he would need now to prop himself forward would be a deep, stabilizing breath and then he would hoist his abdominals and convince them to function.

 _On the count of three…._

 _1…2…3…_

Tony inhaled deeply and sharply – or, at least he tried.

The sudden intake of breath inflated his lungs only halfway before the air sacs spasmed and thrashed, roiling dangerously and sending Tony into a horrendous fit of coughing. He craned his neck and dizzily pivoted himself onto one side, leaning on his elbow, wracking violently and loudly. There was a chorus of immediate clattering throughout the room, lights threw on, chairs were shoved back, and suddenly pairs of hands were upon him, touching him, patting him, soothing him, steadying him. One of the hands hit the call button apparently, because several nurses rushed in, followed by a silver-haired doctor in a pristine white coat.

Had Tony been overtly aware of the presence of so many other humans, he may have felt self-conscious; but he was much too preoccupied coughing up his lungs to frankly give a damn. It wasn't until the ringing ceased in his ears and the whooping died down to a manageable level that Tony flung himself back upon his propped up pillows, absolutely spent and shaking. He was met with a dozen eyes staring at him in anticipation.

Tony cleared his throat gently, attempting to speak. The doctor took the foreground, pressing his palm to Tony's bicep.

"Mr. Stark, your lungs are recovering from hypothermic shock and a mild pre-pneumonial infection. You swallowed quite a bit of the Hudson the other day. Please take it easy."

Tony nodded sincerely. The doctor gave him a small smile.

"Your charts are looking good, you've woken up earlier than expected, and your core temperature is well out of the danger zone. You're doing quite well, and you're expected to make a full recovery." The whole team smiled and Nat patted Tony's leg through the heavy quilt. The doctor plucked a pen from his coat pocket and scribbled a few more notes on the clipboard besides Tony's bed. "I'll leave you to your company, now, Mr. Stark. I'll check back in a few hours." And with that, the Doctor and the nurses escorted themselves out, leaving only a WW2 hero, two assassins, and a short scientist to gaze anxiously at the man in the bed. Tony gifted them with a small pitiful wave of the fingers.

"Hey." He wheezed out.

It was Steve who spoke first.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like a…half a million…bucks…" Tony huffed between shallow breaths. "Which, coincidentally…is…the same amount of money…that it cost…to buy the watch…that I ruined…during my impromptu…swim session." Tony was wheezing, but his smile was evident, as were the smiles of those around him.

"You gave us quite a scare, Tony." Bruce took a look at Tony's updated chart, and obviously satisfied with what he saw, placed it back on its peg and leaned his hip against the nearby counter. "How are you _really_ feeling?"

"I…I'm good, guys…I swear. Just a…little sore and tired…" Tony was being sincere.

It was Barton who spoke next. "Well, bud, you're a hero. And as a hero, we thought that it was only right that you be rewarded with a gift." The archer grinned wide, uncaring to Bruce's responsive groan.

If Tony had been paying attention, he would have seen all of the other Avengers avert their gaze and bite back their smiles, but he was too focused on Clint and the prospect of a present.

"For…*wheeze*…me?" Tony was genuinely touched and even a little excited. It had been forever since he had gotten to unwrap a present. Barton placed the beautifully wrapped box upon his lap, and watched avidly as Tony strained to open it, all the while stifling his giggles, but Tony was too focused on using his energy to shed the wrapping paper to take note.

Finally, the last crease was unfolded and the paper could be easily slipped off to reveal-

"WATER WINGS?!" Tony shouted in disgust, which pushed his lungs much too hard and resulted in a whole new round of painful coughing. Nat punched Barton on the arm, and moved to help Tony through this bout, but not before Tony tossed the box of children's flotation devices at Clint's head. Everyone was laughing though, despite their best efforts. Tony would kill him for this later, but for right now he needed a cough drop and a long nap.

Everything settled down quickly, and pretty soon, the engineer was asleep with his head on Tash's lap, her own body situated upon the bed and her back against the headboard. Steve was sprawled across the one cushioned chair while Barton perched himself on the counter. Bruce had laid claim to the cot, and it took less than five minutes for the whole team to fall fast asleep for the first time in days in the solidarity and comfort of knowing that _all of them_ would be awake come morning.

* * *

 **Thank you guys so much! I had a lot of fun writing this one, please review and let me know what you think. I need some prompts guys, please! If you want the series to continue, drop a line and review. Your feedback keeps me going!**


	6. E for Electrocution Part 1

**E for Electrocution**

* * *

 **So, a bunch of you are super sadistic (look at the whump writer calling the whump readers cruel) and you demanded that I use the letter E to fry Tony Stark into a crispy piece of bacon.**

 **Very well.**

 **WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: a little dark Steve…and a guest appearance by not one, but** **two** **extra special marvel characters.**

 **Thank you for the reviews, keep them coming! The more you review, the happier I am and the more I want to keep writing for you!**

* * *

 **Also** **, guys, I'm super sorry about the delay, but the website was down on upload day, and then my laptop was getting serviced. AS A GIFT, I am uploading two chapters today. YOU ARE WELCOME.**

* * *

The wind whipped fiercely around the Asgardian's commanding face, his hair billowing behind him. Every gust followed the movement of his arms in perfect synchronization; the storm clouds formed at a twist of his wrist. Not many times had the rest of the Avengers team been witness to the actual act of Thor's powers, and they had always assumed that, like the ancient god himself, the way that he conjured weather would be through strong and sharp movements, full of power and bursts of command.

But really, it was an art form. His movements were so fluid, so well-rehearsed. His hammer rose and fell - his face was knit tight in concentration but his body moved like a dancer. The black clouds swarmed the sky, chasing away all semblance of the blue that had been so beautifully blanketed over the California Coastline.

The team on the ground was transfixed. Even Widow let out a breath of appreciation.

The rain began to fall, heavy thick droplets conjured from the air and the seas. Thor had command over it all. The water drenched the dry earth, and the landscape drank greedily. The raging wildfire blazed brightly in contrast to the dank wetness; but soon, even that uncontainable monster was vanquished, starved of dry fuel in the damp trees and underbrush. Just another mission successfully completed by earth's mightiest heroes.

Thor landed shortly after dispelling the worst of the storm, but leaving some cloud cover as an insurance policy. For the first time in their string of successes, the team was met with a round of applause from onlookers. The California Wildfire Department stood on the sidelines, cheering and graciously thanking the Norse God and his comrades. This fire had been much too big for the crew to handle, stretching almost seventy square miles; and many civilian homes had lain unwitting in its path of destruction. Tony, sitting pretty in his Malibu villa earlier that morning, had inquired as to whether the team would be of any use. Obviously, they had.

After wrapping things up on the West Coast, the team boarded the quinjet and headed back to New York. Even though it was a minor mission, and a charitable one at that, debriefing was a strict policy. Usually with something like this, they would all sit around for the mandated half hour and drink coffee or tease each other. Today was no different. Even Fury seemed reluctant to be wasting such time on this particular protocol. He quickly dismissed them and returned to whatever top secret problem he had been attending before the team arrived at headquarters.

Stark Towers was bustling as usual when the team walked in through the lobby. A quick security swipe and the group was on their way up, up, up to their living room.

Tony was the first one through the door. "Damn, I missed New York." Malibu was great, the new house was great, but he had to admit that he longed to be with his teammates. They had become the closest thing to a family that Stark, and most of the other teammates as well, had ever known.

Clint flopped down onto the expensive leather couch and wryly voiced his agreement. Tash gave her typical lip twitch to signify that she was smiling. She claimed her usual crisscross seated position on the corner of the couch, shoving Clint's head out of her spot. The archer swatted her away and laughed, then turned his attention to Steve, who was the only one seemingly conscious of how hard the maids work and was removing his muddy boots to dry on the doormat.

"Hey, Cap," Clint called. Steve perked his head up. "You wanna grab me a banana?"

Tony laughed from the hallway. "Now Barton, that just sounds dirty."

"Oh shut your mouth, Stark, everything sounds dirty to you."

Regardless, Steve chuckled lightly and took two strides to the kitchen. He ripped off a banana from the bunch and tossed it perfectly to Hawkeye who caught it over the back of couch without even looking.

Thor hung his hammer on its honorary peg by the door, and shrugged out of his Roots sweatshirt that the team had made him purchase to look a little more inconspicuous walking through NYC – well, there was only so discreet you could be when you were a 6 foot 6 blonde and hulking male model with deep blue eyes and long blonde hair… but the sweatshirt was at least a little better at masking those traits than his typical metal bodysuit and flaming red cape.

"Has there been any news on the welfare of our good doctor?" Thor leaned against the wall. "How does he fare?"

Tony nodded at him between sips of his smoothie. "Yah," He swallowed. "I got an email from Brucey today. The research team is almost done in Oregon - they think they've contained the radiation signals."

Thor grinned widely and clapped Tony on the back, sending the smaller man lurching forward slightly. Damn, he would never get used to Asgardians. "That is splendid news! Doctor Banner shall return to his friends soon, then. We shall have a great feast upon his arrival home!"

Natasha had resumed the book that she had left on the coffee table. Barton piped up from his lounging position. "You know me, Blondie." Clint was absentmindedly flicking through cable channels. "Always in the mood for a feast." The Archer settled on 'House Hunters'.

Steve couldn't help but look around in a content silence. They were all so domesticated, so comfortable with each other. This room contained a super soldier from World War 2, a Norse God, a billionaire with a weaponized suit, and two master assassins. And there was a smoothie being slurped, a fridge being raided, and a Florida couple on the TV deciding which Miami condo to buy. It was a great sight.

But of course, peace never lasts long enough. Just as Thor and Tony had planted their butts into the recliners to join Clint (after a detailed explanation to the Norseman that 'House Hunters' did not equate to people literally hunting houses), the alarms in Stark Tower began to blare. Their phones lit up with a page from Fury himself, and JARVIS invaded the Television Screen.

" _Sir,"_ the English AI accent came loudly and urgently. _"There is an emergency transpondence from Director Nicholas Fury being received here directly from SHIELD Headquarters. Shall I patch him through, Sir?"_

"Immediately, JARVIS, yes." Tony and the others were all up and standing alertly around the screen. Fury's face popped up in an instant, his face looking tired and worried, and much more pissy than it had only two hours earlier.

"Director." Steve stood center screen, at attention.

"Captain." Fury nodded respectfully. "At ease." Steve shifted his feet and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Fury took a bracing breath. "We have a problem. And Thor, you, especially, are not going to like it."

Thor immediately pushed in front of Barton and stood just behind Steve. "Is it Asgard? Are they under attack?" He demanded, his eyes searching Fury's face for answers.

"No. Asgard is unthreatened, as far as we know," came the Director's reply. "This is about your brother."

Thor went rigid, his voice taut with supressed emotion. "Loki is dead. He gave his life so that I might live. He died honorably. You all know this. Why do you speak of him?"

Fury raised his hands apologetically. "This doesn't concern him directly. This pertains more to his followers."

Thor nodded hesitantly, signaling his wish that Fury continue.

The man on the screen shifted slightly, preparing to debrief.

"Thor, there have been whispers through our system suggesting the existence of an organized party of sympathizers for your brother's cause. Loki did not make enemies of the _entire_ human race. There are those sick sons of bitches out there who love your brother, who _wanted_ to be enslaved."

"Kinky." Stark muttered. Tash slapped the back of his head. _"Oww, mom!"_ She glared. He was silent again.

Fury didn't notice and continued on. "These sympathizers call themselves the 'New Era'. They preach radicalism to their followers about the benefits of having the earth under the control of such an advanced race. They are small, but they are armed. They made their first demonstration of that power last night."

"What happened last night?" Steve raised his eyebrows.

"Between the hours of 0:1:00 and 0:3:00 early this morning, the New Era made their world debut as a militant force. They raided a SHIELD compound, killing six of my agents, all in the name of Loki. What they want is to draw the attention of Asgard – specifically Thor. They believe that if they can draw out the God of Thunder, his brother will show up as well, vanquish Thor, and reward their efforts with a one way ticket home to Asgard." Fury's tone at the end was beyond exasperation. He was right. These people were nuts.

Thor just scoffed. "Are they simple? Are they daft beyond reason? Firstly, my brother is gone. Gone. Their antics will not bring him back. Secondly," He rumbled, "You cannot lure the mighty Thor into a trap! Midgard is tarnished by the existence of these morons! We should dispose of them! Lock them in your dungeons! Put them – "

Fury stopped him. "Thor, I'm sorry to say that it has already worked. They already have you in the trap, because there is nothing I can say to stop you from going once you know what happened. But I have to tell you because you," he gestured to the team, "are the only group of individuals who can complete the mission."

Thor was visibly puzzled. "Yes, they killed your warriors, and for your sake and theirs I mourn and demand justice. But what, pray tell, could they have done as to entrap me so?"

Fury closed his one eye and rubbed at his temple. The man was exhausted. "It's not what they did – it's what they _took_."

The team waited in anticipation.

"The compound they stormed was a lab, and inside was everything we know about the nine realms: the bifrost, the weaponry - everything. The New Era took all the research – and they also took SHIELD's leading researcher in Astrophysics: the one human on the planet who knows how to work an Einstein-Rosen Bridge." The older man paused, looking at Thor warily for his understanding.

He saw understanding, alright. Thor was absolutely pale with rage. His mouth opened and closed, but no words escaped. The rest of the team took longer to comprehend, but when they did, they all looked at the Norse God in shock.

Fury confirmed their fears with a sentence that left a haunting echo in Thor's mind:

"They took Jane Foster."

* * *

It had taken the team almost 30 minutes to get Thor onto the Quinjet. He had been absolutely sizzling with rage, threatening to flatten half the city. And sizzling _literally._ Static had been coming off him in waves. Tash's hair was a bright red, frizzled afro whenever she got too close to the Thunder God; so, needless to say, she was not pleased he was riding next to her. Usually, the team would have Thor fly alongside the Jet, but they wanted him contained. There was no telling what he would do if he got there before the rest of the team.

The rest of the debriefing had occurred on the quin over the comm system. Details of the New Era base, the outlying terrain – every member had absorbed as much information as they could. Steve had roughly an hour to come up with a plan before the jet landed. To his credit, he had formulated one in under twenty minutes. It was a classic Steve Rogers get-in-get-out kind of setup.

 _ **Hawkeye perches, eye in the sky, providing cover for team and incapacitating stragglers to wait for SHIELD containment to arrest them.**_

 _ **Iron Man blasts exterior defenses, opens compound door – set beams to stun.**_

 _ **Captain America, Widow, and Thor storm compound, followed by SHIELD containment battalion.**_

 _ **Cap takes first floor, Widow takes second floor, and Thor takes the third floor (Jane?)**_

 _ **Secure the package, arrest the New Era.**_

 _ **Eat Schawarma.**_

Besides the last bullet that Stark had added, the plan was very cut and dry. The Avengers were under strict orders to arrest as many members of the radical group as possible. SHIELD needed to know where they got their weapons, how they had found Jane, so on so forth. If there were holes in the organization's security, they needed to be found and plugged.

For this reason, lethal force was only to be permitted if the battle took a turn for the worst, and it became a kill-or-be-killed situation. Everyone had nodded in agreement – Thor included. Frankly, he was, for once, not interested in the fight itself; he just wanted Jane safe in his arms.

 _Jane._ The very thought of her made him shut his eyes against the nausea and panic building in his chest. They could be doing anything to her – starving her, beating her, cutting her - or worse. Scenes of hellish torture ran through the thunder god's mind. When he opened his eyes again, they were as black as the storm clouds he so easily conjured that morning.

Revenge would be his.

* * *

The quinjet landed silently in the dark woods two miles from the base. If SHIELD estimations were correct, the New Era did not have enough men to patrol this far out. Most would be within sight of the compound wall.

That made everything much easier.

The Team, followed very distantly by a platoon of 30 SHIELD containment officers, made the short trek to the forest's edge. The lights of the base were likely just stolen lampposts. The barbed wire was old and rusted, and the doors were lined with a wall of sandbags.

Tony, the weapons and defense expert, scoffed indignantly. He was insulted by their lack of prowess in militant landscaping. His condescension swiftly ceased upon spotting their weapons, however. Each patrolman carried not one, but **two** of the most high tech semi-automatic assault weapons on the market. Tony recognized the logo immediately: HammerTech. _Justin, you prick._ Even from prison, he was making Tony's life harder. Regardless, the weapons made one thing very clear:

The New Era was prepare to use deadly force without hesitation.

Clint found himself gripping his arrows tightly, feeling (per usual) like a batshit crazy robin hood who brought a bow to a machine gun fight. Widow, who always seems to know exactly what everyone is thinking, nudged him in reassurance.

He nodded back.

Good talk.

Steve shifted from his crouched position in the bushes. Hawkeye's hearing aids, which he had turned up past normal volume for the stealth mission, caught the sound and looked sharply over at his leader. Steve nodded and gave him a series of hand signals. Phase 1. Show time.

Barton soundlessly unfolded himself from his cover, looked around himself for a few seconds, and picked a vantage point: a solid pine tree with strong low branches that would be an easy and noiseless climb. He slung his bow across his back perpendicular to his quiver and began his ascent, his stealth suit of blacks and olive greens blending perfectly into the canopy. He was seamless, and after a minute, he reached his perch. He sent a signal on his watch down to Steve's communicator. Everyone was in position.

Iron Man shut down his external comm and whispered into his helmet, JARVIS typed out his words and texted them to Hawkeye.

" _Hey fluffernutter, don't fall asleep and lose your perch. I'm not carrying you back to the quinjet when you break your leg."_

Hawkeye's reply was a beautifully aimed pinecone that hit Tony square on the helmet with a small _clank_. Tony huffed and typed away.

" _You chickenfucker."_

Hawkeye almost blew their cover with his laughter, but he contained himself. Tony, with a very cheeky grin on his face, caught Cap's glance of fatherly disapproval.

"Ugh, sorry Dad. I'll go outside and play now." Steve just shook his head, unwilling to let Stark see his smirk. He didn't want to encourage him, after all.

Tony stood up, clear and shiny for all the world to see and blasted up and away. The compound's searchlights fixed on him and orders were being screamed from the upper battlements. Men ran across ramparts and guns were being fired into the dark sky at the flaming red, gold, and silver target. Tony was quick to draw fire away from where his teammates remained hidden, but he certainly was enjoying himself otherwise.

Loudly into the comms, Tony began humming a Strauss Waltz as he fired his repulsor beams.

"La da da da da!"

 _Pew Pew,_

 _Pew Pew._

"La da dum da da."

Pew Pew,

Pew Pew.

"La da da duuum daaaaa, La da Dee! La da – "

"Stark, knock it off." Widow was checking and rechecking her handguns in anticipation for the compound entrance to be blasted to pebbles. "Hurry up and open the door."

"Ugh, yes ma'am. You're no fun at all, you know that? You should drink more, it does – "

 _A grunt, and a few more shots._

"- Absolute wonders for my sense of – "

 _A larger blast, followed by the sound of cascading rocks._

" – Optimism!" Tony breathed deep. "The door is open for you, m'lady."

Steve's voice reigned supreme over the network. "Phase Three is a go. Widow, floor Two. Thor, Floor Three. I've got First floor. On my mark."

Steve waited one second, two seconds, took a steadying breath, and shoved off from the ground, shield out and fists ready. Widow stayed on his 6, and Thor flew ahead, knocking men unconscious with a single swing, but checking his strength appropriately.

A hoard of armed men met them at the door, but Widow had them down in seconds with well-placed shots to the legs and shoulders. Steve was throwing punches left right and center, and Thor was certainly taking out his frustrations. Soon, the lobby was clear, and each member, breathing heavily but full of energy and adrenaline, nodded in unison and separated to undertake their individual tasks. Steve ran down a hallway to his left, Tash began her ascent up to the next story.

Thor didn't even bother with stairs, but instead took his hammer to the ceiling and blasted through the second and third floor. He would find Jane, and the monster responsible for all of this madness.

* * *

Tony was just handing the last man to the containment unit when he saw Thor blast upwards in the foyer. _Show off,_ Tony thought wryly. Barton was still in the tree, of course, but he was hanging easily from a branch with his legs swinging in the breeze, enjoying himself. He had only fired four or five arrows to tie up a few fleeing legs, and other than that his night had been rather unexciting. He kept yelling down to Tony during round up about coming to get him because he didn't want to climb down.

"What, you afraid of heights, Barton?" Tony playfully yelled back.

"No, asshat. I'm just saying on the way up here I got pine sap all over me. I'd rather not have a repeat showering of it on the way down." As if to emphasize his point, he picked dramatically at the sticky mats encrusted in his dirty blonde hair.

Tony sighed, "Alright, Princess Featherface. I'll be up to carry you down from your ivory tower in just one moment." Tony couldn't help but chuckle at Barton's smug smile. He lowered his faceplate, boosted up to the top of the pine tree, and grabbed Clint by the quiver strap. They both knew it would hold his weight – Tony had designed it himself. Tony cut power and lowered them to the ground gently but quickly, setting the archer firmly on his feet.

"Thanks pal." Clint genuinely patted him on the back of the suit. Sometimes, the two sarcastic lil shits got to have nice moments as friends where they weren't always insulting each other. Those moments were nice.

But this was not one of those moments.

"Don't mention it, pal. Actually, do mention it. Mention it to the world. Cuz I had JARVIS take a video of me rescuing you like a kitten from a tree, and its already on my Twitter, my Instagram, my Tumblr, my Snap Story, My Faceb-"

"YOU BASTARD!"

"I emailed it to BuzzFeed, Good Morning America, Oprah, Ellen-"

"I WILL KILL YOU, TONY!"

"ha-HA!"

Tony was dodging Barton's fisticuffs when he saw them – massive storm clouds sweeping in out of nowhere. They were blacker than black, and roiling with potential. Very dangerous potential.

"Thor." Both men said in unison, reaching an immediate and grave understanding. Barton began sprinting across the yard and into the compound; Tony took a direct approach and flew straight at the third floor, crashing into a window. He rolled across the floor and came up in a fighting stance. He raised his head and braced himself for the battle that he assumed Thor must be busily fighting – but the sight that met him was much worse.

Thor was standing completely unmoving, his hammer raised in front of him like a gun, steady and unshaking as if it weighed nothing. He was at the entrance to the long room. The other end of the room contained a scrawny rat of a gentleman situated behind a whimpering and bruised Jane Foster. She was gagged by a dirty cloth, and bound to a cast iron chair. She was strong, Tony could see. She was whimpering for Thor, not out of pain or panic. Her eyes, though blotchy and exhausted, held no sign of hysterics or anguish, only pride and anger - and now, at the sight of her boyfriend holding a weapon to her captor, pure vengeful glee.

Tony could see why Thor liked her so much. Hell, Tony already liked her and they hadn't even been formally introduced.

The man standing behind Jane was obviously the fixation of Thor's rage. He was boldly using Jane as a human shield. However, the man looked ready to shit his pants at the sight of Tony Stark's Iron Man. His beady little eyes flicked back and forth from the two Avengers, his tongue darting out to moisten his dry and cracked lips. His forehead was sweaty and his hair was greasy. Tony was almost insulted.

' _Here we are, taking all this time to come and beat you,'_ he thought sardonically, ' _and you can't even be bothered to take a shower?'_ Tony shook his head slowly. They just don't make villains like they used to.

It was Thor, now, that Tony turned to. He raised his faceplate, making direct eye contact with his teammate. "Alright, Thor. We got him. Good work, and all that. I'll radio down for SHIELD Containment. Go get your girlfriend." But Thor didn't move. His eyes barely spared the moments to blink, as if the perpetrator of all this would disappear if he wasn't under constant vigilance.

"Look, Man of iron." Thor pushed out between gritted teeth. "Look what they did to my Jane." At Thor's words, Ms. Foster whimpered louder, desperate for Thor to come get her. Tony turned and really studied her. Yikes. Bruises around her neck, cuts near her hairline. Jane's Knuckles were bruised and crusted with dried blood – she put up a fight. The purple swollen lump on her left temple suggested that she had lost that fight rather quickly, though. Tony was sympathetic to both sides. He knew what it was like to be beaten and tortured. But he also understood Thor's feelings. Tony couldn't imagine what he would be like if it was Pepper sitting there. He took a steadying breath. The engineer highly doubted he would have been able to demonstrate as much control as Thor had to this point. If that was Pep, the bastard would be dead.

"Thor, I know what you want to do. I even believe that it would be kinda the right thing _to_ do." Tony eyed the god warily. "But we have our orders. Look at him. He is a coward – 153% loser. He is a little slimy worm. He's not worth the effort. Let him sit in a prison and rot. That's all he's good for, anyway." Thor's arm wavered, and his eyes blinked unevenly. Tony was getting through to him. "That's right buddy, let it go, ok? We have Jane, and she's safe. Go to her, I'll take care of the scumbag. He's a piece of shit anyway. We can beat the crap out of him later, but for now, let him live." Thor nodded briskly, conflicting emotions visible on his face. Tony's shoulders sagged in relief. That had been a close call.

Tony crossed the room steadily and glowered over the weasel, grabbing him painfully by the arm and throwing his groveling form to the floor. "Get up." Stark's voice was threatening. "And get moving. Out the door."

At that moment, Tony naively thought that everyone would make it out of there without a problem. Of course, as usual with that sort of thinking, he was wrong. Everything would have gone to plan, of course, if it hadn't been for that New Era prick.

Everything would have gone fine if that guy hadn't picked that moment to look up at Thor. Thor watched in horror as the man absorbed the sight of his battered Jane, looked back at the Norseman, and smiled with bone-chilling sadistic glee. He was sending a message to Thor: _Look what I did._

Tony really couldn't blame Thor for losing it at that point - but what he wasn't expecting was for the Norse God to ignite in rage and spin his hammer around his head. The storm outside shattered the remaining windows with the magnitude of the thunder that hailed down upon them. Poor Hawkeye, who had just made it to the landing, cried out in pain and fumbled in his ears to turn off his hearing aids. He stumbled shakily into the room just in time to see Thor thrust his hammer outwards towards the villain. Lightning welled in the handle of Mjolnir and shot out its face, sending a blue strike of crackling energy towards the man's chest. There was no doubt about it, this was a fatal blow.

But the lightning never touched him.

Instead, it dove deep, in the way that only electricity can, into a titanium alloy suit that had thrown itself directly into the path of the bolt. It wormed its way into circuits, frying everything it touched. The power delved down into fluids and hydraulics, shattering pistons and evaporating lines. It grazed its way over skin and living organisms and excited the cells until they were red hot, burning and singing, and then it found its way to soft tissue – organs, pulses, and so much water…so much conductivity. The stream of lightning stopped almost as soon as it was fired, but the effects lasted so much longer. The power swam through the blood supply, shocking and stalling everything it brushed past. The scent of destruction filled its host's nostrils, sending the aroma of burning flesh and boiling blood sifting mercilessly into his receptors – but then the receptors were fried as well.

The zap dissolved into a shock which dissolved into a buzz with dissolved into a tingle. But nobody was around to feel the power dissipate. Tony Stark's heart had already stopped.

* * *

Hawkeye couldn't move, couldn't talk, and couldn't breathe.

 _Tony._

The scene before him played out as what his friends would call a "silent movie". To Clint, the natural state of life was silent, and usually he found a deep sense of relaxation when he removed his hearing aids.

But somehow, God…. Watching what was happening…and in complete silence? It was the most unsettling thing the assassin had ever witnessed.

The lightning just – it just engulfed him. Like a sentient hunger that clung and fed. It hit him so fast, a burst of light and sparks, and it wracked Tony's body. Clint doubted that Tony was even conscious when he let out the strangled cry that passed his lips milliseconds after contact. Barton couldn't hear the scream, but he saw the engineer's mouth contort into a gruesome agony.

He was glad his world was on mute.

Clint watched in silence as Tony writhed on the ground, coming to absolute stillness. He felt the vibrations of Steve and Natasha sprinting up the stairs at the outburst. It must have been incredibly loud.

Barton didn't even realize he was running forward until he painfully collapsed to his knees at Tony's side. He immediately grabbed the suit, searching for the small automatic unlock switches that had saved Tony time and time again. He should have thought that motion through, for when his fleshy finger touched the titanium alloy, he got a very unpleasant shock that send pain shooting up his arm. Clint gulped. If that was just a fraction of what Tony had felt… He shivered.

Clint felt the pounding on the floor, and turned to see Steve and Nat running towards them. Nat's red curls were bouncing up and down, shifting as she turned her head to take in the scene. Clint could remember before she had cut her hair. He thought wistfully about the time she had let him practice braiding her hair so he would get it right on his daughters. Why was he thinking about that now? What was going on? Nat?

He looked up at her, and met her eyes in confusion. He looked back down at Tony.

"Tony?" he choked out. Strange not being able to hear your own voice as you speak. He felt Nat drag him away from Tony's body – _NO do NOT say body,_ Clint. The archer reprimanded himself. _A body implies that he's gone, that there isn't anything left in it, that he's just a…a body. A shell._

"Tony… Tony isn't a shell, Nat…" he felt himself cry out hoarsely. "He's not a shell!"

Nat sat in front of him, pulling him to the ground. She patted his cheek roughly, restricting his view of Tony. She said something to him, but he couldn't focus enough to read her lips. Nat waited for a response, and when it didn't come she realized her mistake. She signed to him quickly:

" _Tony is going to be fine, don't worry, Clint. I promise."_

Clint's hands were shaking too badly for him to sign back, but he nodded in understanding. He didn't even realize he had been crying until Tash stretched an arm out and wiped a stray tear from his cheek.

* * *

Widow hadn't ever seen Barton go into shock. It was scaring her, seeing her closest friend and steadfast partner crying and mumbling to himself. He had no idea what was going on, he had made that very clear. He just knew Tony was hurt, and doubtless, he had been there when it happened. That was most likely what brought on his current state.

Tash knew that she would be of no use to Tony crowding him. Steve's gloves had a rubber polymer base, and he could remove the suit without getting any current transference. He was the safest bet. She turned her head to glance at the Norse God. Thor was against the wall, hammer dropped at his feet, obviously appalled at what he had done. While Tash didn't blame him for anything (she had very quickly deduced that it had been an accident) she couldn't help but be a little glad that Thor was guilty. He deserved it a _little_ bit.

Tash left an incoherent Hawkeye in the corner and jogged quickly across the floor to untie the girl from the chair. She could only assume that this was the civilian scientist, Jane. Jane's eyes were locked on Thor, reflecting his pain at what he had done. However, much to her own credit and Widow's approving glance, Jane stood up the moment she was untied and rushed to her boyfriend's side. She was so small compare to him, her olive tone skin and dark hair a deep contrast to the Norse God.

"It wasn't your fault, Thor. Honey, it wasn't your fault." She embraced him, and he couldn't help but snap out of it, drawing her in close to him, holding on to her for dear life, and planting gentle kisses to the top of her head. But he never quite took his eyes off of his unmoving comrade on the floor. Steve had radioed for SHIELD medical immediately upon clearing the third landing, and the medivac unit was already upstairs spreading out their equipment on the floor.

One medic bent his head down to Stark's chest, listened intently, and shouted orders.

"Code Blue, Pads!" The woman on his right handed him the portable defibrillator. Another medic whipped out a pair of medical scissors. He swiftly cut Stark's shirt right down the middle, revealing his bare chest and a dimming arc reactor.

The medics hesitated for only a moment before swiftly placing the stick-on fibrillation pads around the sides of the arc reactor and Tony's left upper rib cage.

"Prepare to Shock." A medic announced, charging the machine.

"Clear." All hands went up and off, Tony's body arched grotesquely into the air, and he collapsed back into the suit like a wet fish. It was terrifying. Tash went to stand with Steve, and she could tell that he hardly noticed her presence. She placed an around his waist, trying to comfort him. He leaned into it. She stole a glance at his face and saw tears brimming in his eyes. The assassin turned back to their friend on the ground, and now that she was closer, she audibly gasped – something incredibly rare for the usually stoic Russian.

Stark's bare chest was a tragically beautiful striping of lightning tattoos – the red and white bolts lashed across his sternum and stomach. The burns were undoubtedly serious, but it was impossible not to be awestruck in a morbid appreciation at their patterns. _If Stark wakes up –_

 _No_ , she corrected herself. _When Stark wakes up_ , _he's going to love those scars._

She tried to smile at the thought, but she couldn't bring herself to. The smell of Tony's singed hair was reaching her nose. Nat turned her head away – she couldn't bear to look any longer at the burned husk of their fellow avenger. She tucked her head into Steve's shoulder. She listened to cycle after cycle of the medics attempting to resuscitate Tony. If she heard "Clear" one more time, she might vomit.

Just as everyone was about to give up hope, the female medic halted all movement with a shout. Tash whipped her head around to see what was occurring. The blonde medic pressed her ear to Tony's sternum. She held it there for what seemed like years, but what couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

"I have arrhythmia," she declared, reaching around her for the neck brace. They strapped Tony into the board, pulling him out of the suit carefully but quickly, and gave him ventilation. Before Steve could get a word or a question in edgewise over their medical jargon, they were gone. The two watched from the window as Tony was loaded onto a medivac helicopter and whisked away into the night. It was quite a dramatic exit. Stark would have appreciated it, had he been conscious.

"They have…arrhythmia?" Steve whispered to Widow. The Russian coughed, trying to clear the lump in her throat.

"They…They have a heartbeat. But it's not a good one. The arrhythmia means his heart is trying to regain its electrical pulses. The shock was so bad that it threw off his natural clock. His heart is beating irregularly. It's 50/50, Steve. They can fix it, or…"

"Or?"

"Or his heart will give out in a matter of days."

There was silence. Complete silence. It was broken only by the rustling of Barton's pants on the wooden floor as he rocked back and forth in the corner. Then it was broken by an Asgardian.

"I…I am so sorry." It was the quietest voice they had ever heard Thor use. His face looked ashen, his guilt was a visible weight upon his shoulders. The man was almost broken.

Steve shuffled over to him. "Thor, my friend," Captain America used the comforting Asgardian custom of placing a hand on Thor's cheek, cupping his face sternly but not roughly. "We do not blame you. Don't blame yourself." And with that, Thor nodded, and breathed deep; he was visibly comforted by both Jane's gentle kiss to his neck and his leader's words. Just as an extra measure, and in an attempt to lighten the mood, Steve added: "And that's an order." Thor smiled slightly, nodded again, bowed his head to Natasha, and led his Jane out the door and down the steps. They made it several feet before the astrophysicist, exhausted and in shock, stumbled slightly. Without a word, Thor scooped her into his arms. She started to argue, but stopped herself, basking in his closeness. Steve watched them descend the steps, a single tear rolling down Jane's smooth cheek into the collarbone of her lover. She was nuzzled securely, and Rogers doubted that Thor would not have let go of her for anything at that moment.

Steve drew himself out of the thought and turned to the Russian, who was crouched beside their shaken archer.

"Is he hurt, Tash?"

"In shock. Physically fine." She stood, sighing deeply. "I'll get him down to medical to get checked out. Get him one of those ridiculous blankets." She bent down again, whispering and tugging at the archer. She got him shakily to his feet, hooked her arm around him, and supported him out the door and down the stairs.

Steve was alone. Almost.

Turning dangerously to the far side of the room, Steve took in the pathetic mass before him. The man who had started it all. He had kept quiet in the corner, hoping people wouldn't notice him. Boy, had he thought wrong.

"I'll bet," Steve's voice had an edge to it that was so deadly, he was glad the rest of his team wasn't there to hear it. "I'll bet that you sat there this whole time hoping we would just forget about you. Is that right?" the man said nothing, just sunk back further into the corner.

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION." Steve closed the gap between them in two strides, rage in his eyes and hatred in his voice. He hadn't been this mad since…since…

A sudden image of Bucky, strapped to a table, half-starved and blatantly abused, plowed its way into Steve's forethought. The flashback made him gasp. He remembered finding his best friend caged up and experimented on like an animal. The only reason he had been able to contain his rage back then was because he had to focus on saving Buck.

But now, right now, Stark was already safe. He was on his way to the hospital.

So this bastard was about to feel the brunt of a lot of anger.

Steve threw his shield to the floor. He grabbed the man by the lapels and brought him to his feet and beyond. The slimy little creature was about six inches off the ground, grasping at his shirt collar and Captain America's unwavering hand.

" .You. ." Steve punctuated. "Did you think we would just forget about you?"

The man gurgled and thrashed in a panic. He nodded spastically.

"Well, that was your first mistake." Steve raised him higher. "I never forget a bully."

Steve shriveled his nose in disgust as a dark stain spread down the whimpering man's pants. This was disgusting. This poor excuse for a human was disgusting.

"Who are you?" The man gurgled again. "DO NOT make me ask twice."

"My-My n-name is S-Snyder. J-Jim Snyder."

"And are you in charge here, _Jim Snyder?"_ There was so much venom in Steve's voice, but he couldn't care less.

"Y-Yes. I am th-the Commander o-of the New Era. W-We worship Loki, for h-he is all that is mighty and supreme. H-He shall bring the human race forward into a new dawn, a new age of greatness through servitude, and all th – "

His speech was getting more radical and fervent as he went on, but Steve had had quite enough already.

"I don't really give a damn." He shook the man slightly, still off the ground. "Do you understand what you did here? The good men you killed? The good man that you didn't deserve to have save you? And he did it because it was his job." Steve was getting louder and louder. "That man is a hero. He jumped in front of certain death just to save a mewling, pathetic lump like you." Steve spit at the man's feet. "And all you can do is wet yourself and spew a load of crap about an ego-maniacal lunatic who _descended from the heavens_ and tried to enslave the human race? Well, let me tell you, buddy," Steve gave the bastard another harsh shake. "I've met your precious Loki, and he's nothing but a pouty little brat who can't decide whether he wants to piss or get off the pot."

A cool, melodious voice sang its way into Steve's ears, sending a dagger of ice into his heart, dread doused his rage, and Steve turned his head, all-too-aware of the reverent expression blossoming on Snyder's face.

"Now, now, good Captain." The voice was Shakespearean, articulate, and eloquent. "Is that really a fair judgment? After all, we've hardly had a real opportunity to become acquainted with one another."

Steve threw his captive to the ground, turning slowly on the spot. He faced the new occupant in the room – one who certainly wasn't supposed to be there. According to Thor, he had died months ago. But sure enough, in his green and gold serpentine suit, stood the god of mischief himself.

Steve's throat was dry, his nerves were tensed.

"Loki."

* * *

 **HOLY SHIT, RIGHT? Ok so I had way too much fun with this chapter, I'm sorry. Part two will be out momentarily!**

 **REVIEW, YOU FREELOADERS!**


	7. E for Electrocution Part 2

**E for Electrocution Part 2**

* * *

 **So this second part will be way shorter, sorry, only about 2000 words - but it's just a wrap up!**

* * *

"Loki." Steve's voice managed to remain unwavering. It was not a question, not even a statement. An acknowledgement, really.

Loki.

Loki was here.

"Yes, good show, Captain! You remembered your words." The dark haired silver tongue spoke with his trademark sharp wit and ever-present patronization.

Yup, this was Loki all right.

"You're supposed to be dead."

Loki just rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Yes, Captain I am supposed to be dead." He snapped his fingers and a plush, decorative armchair appeared behind him. He sat back in it, making himself comfortable. "But let us not fall into hypocrisies, my dear soldier. Everyone thought you were dead for quite some time as well."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "That was different."

"Oh, was it?" Loki sat forward, poised and wide eyed. "Was it really that different? Why? Because you didn't expect to live? You were kept alive by good fortune, therefore you're the _real_ hero?" His voice was dripping with bitterness. "But, because I had to the good sense to ensure my own survival, I'm less of a saint and more of a sinner?" His eyes were beginning to flare now. "Tell, me good captain. Why is martyrdom a better trait for a hero than self-preservation?"

Steve stared at the madman…this is what he hated most about his kind. They had such an ability to twist words to make themselves appear ever-righteous. The worst part? It almost always worked. Their words tugged at shreds of guilt and self-doubt. But Steve wouldn't believe him - not now, not ever. He had fought this same breed of evil in the 40's, he would do it again now.

"Stop with the turn-a-phrase, Loki." Steve raised his chin. "If you want to kill me, get on with the fight. Don't be a coward."

Loki laughed quietly, shaking his head to himself as if sharing in a private joke. "No, no, Rogers. I have not come here to kill you. I have come here to kill no man." He stopped himself. "Well, actually now that you mention it." Loki absentmindedly raised his hand. A dagger appeared from thin air. Steve gasped and darted behind his shield as he heard the knife whistle through the room. It hit soft tissue with a dull thud, and Steve raised his head in shock.

Jim Snyder let out a wet moan and looked down at the blade protruding from his sternum, blood trickling out of his mouth. He gazed pleadingly back up at Loki with confusion, but his feverishly eyes never drained of their worshipping fervor.

Loki looked back at the weasel of a man and his eyes ran ice cold. "You are not worthy to serve my beasts, let alone me." His face was expressionless. "And you should be grateful that I killed you swiftly. For what you did to Lady Foster and my dear brother, I could have had you strung up and flayed." And with that, Loki's face broke out into a sick grin. He flicked his wrist, and the dagger embedded in Snyder twisted roughly, ending the man's suffering.

Steve was flabbergasted, his mouth hung open like a flytrap - as his mother would say.

"There, that's much better." Loki sunk back into his chair, obviously pleased with himself. "I have always believed that three is a bit of a crowd." Steve was shaking with rage.

"We needed him alive. We needed him to give us information. That man may have been a useless wasted of chemicals, but Tony risked his life so that SHIELD would have answers."

"No he didn't."

Steve was taken aback. "Excuse me?! You weren't there. You didn't see what happened! Tony Stark jumped right in fr-"

Loki raised his hand. "I was there, Captain. I have been here the whole time. I'm rather good at that, you know." He absentmindedly tugged at his cuff. "And yes, your dear Man of Iron jumped in front of my brother's most fatal form of attack – it is a move I have seen him make many times in battle, and every time, it has successfully killed the foe, regardless of their size or skill or shield. Tony Stark was thoroughly dead before he hit the floor."

"But he came back. The medics brought him back."

Loki managed to look amused and smug all at once. "That is incredibly quaint, Captain. Keep telling yourself that."

Steve clenched his fists. "Explain yourself."

Loki sighed melodramatically and raised himself from his chair with a huff. The seat disappeared immediately. "I shall repeat what I said earlier. Tony Stark did _not_ throw himself into harm's way because of a ridiculous protocol. You must know that, good Captain. I only ever met the man for five minutes and even I can tell he is not one for following orders." The Asgardian smirked fondly. "No, I watched the scene play out with much intrigue. You see," Loki paced casually to and from the large warehouse windows. "My brother is the exact opposite of Stark. Thor Odenson has spent his whole life following orders. He has a very…" he paused searching for the words, "A very childlike interpretation of right and wrong – it's incredibly black and white to him. I've always envied that about my brother… how easy it must be to simply do what you're told and never question it." He shook his head sadly. Steve stayed silent, unmoving, ready at any moment to be on the defensive – but something told him that this time, Loki was being sincere. He was not a threat.

"You see, my brother wanted to kill that man. Rightly so, I'm afraid. He was a coward and a brute." Loki gestured to the corpse of the New Era Leader. "And frankly, I'm not flattered by his little club at all. I think they're morons." He returned to the window.

Steve followed his gaze to the outside lawn. The dark of night was being pushed away by floodlights and emergency vehicle flashers. it was hypnotizing.

"But you see, Rogers, Thor _wanted to kill that man_. Your Iron Warrior knew all too well that my brother was going to, regardless – and Stark also knew that if he went through with it, Thor would never forgive himself for disobeying such an order and violating a law of war. He would feel as though he had slain a man without trial for his crimes: a captive of war, mistreated. Not to mention the fact that Jane would have been witness to him taking a life. No, my brother has a rather pesky conscience, and those things would cause him much internal pain."

Loki paused, and his voice took on almost a gentle tone. "Your friend didn't spare the human's life - he does not care for _protocol._ Your friend - he spared my brother." Loki took a wistful breath. "And so I spared him."

Steve was wary, and his mind was abuzz with conflict. "You saved him? You brought back Tony?" He didn't know what to believe.

"Well, yes I brought him back - but only just. I had to make it look believable. I wasn't about to have Mr. Stark jump up and give us a waltz, now was I? Can't have my big brother suspecting an unfair advantage, he might come looking for me." There was an unsaid ending to that sentence, a sadness that hung in his words. The room was silent for a moment.

Finally, the Asgardian clapped his hands together in finality. "Well, I do believe the time has come to bid the other farewell. Oh, and Captain? I trust you'll not say a word of this to my dear brother." His eyes were calm yet there was a threat veiled within them.

Steve squared his shoulders."He mourns you. I don't think you realize how much so."

Loki's voice was fragile now. "Do not presume to know what I have realized."

"You should tell Thor you're alive, Loki. he's right outside. we should go down - together."

The Asgardian shook his head sadly, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "So, I suppose I cannot trust you to keep this between you and I. Very well, good captain."

Loki raised his hands slowly, sending Steve into full combat mode. The soldier braced himself for a magical attack.

None came.

Loki sighed. "I'm not going to kill you, Rogers. I'm simply cleaning up after myself."

The last thing Steve saw was Loki's face, and he found nothing there but loneliness.

* * *

Steve came up behind Natasha with a forced grin. "So it looks like Barton is gonna be fine, yah?

Tash nodded curtly. "Very minor shock. He finally got that stupid blanket." Sure enough, Barton was seated on the back of a jeep, swaddled neatly into an orange thermal blanket. He had a cup of coffee and was sipping on it the way a child sips hot chocolate. It was kind of cute, and Steve felt the urge to put SpongeBob on the TV for the poor guy.

"So, how did it…go upstairs? You've been up there for quite a while." She was trying to address it gently. Steve understood her hesitation. If he had had another minute with the guy before…it happened, Steve might have ended up being the one to kill him, instead.

"It…well, it ended very quickly." Nat waited for him to continue. Steve sighed. "I had him strung up by his lapels, and I was putting the fear of God into him. He wet himself, Tash." She turned up her nose.

"Well. That speaks volumes." Was her only comment.

"I'll say. Then, well," he paused, and came up to pinch the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. "I dropped him to the ground, I spit at his feet, and he pulls a dagger out of an ankle strap and plunges it into his own chest, singing Loki's praises all the way to hell." The memory made Steve shiver; it had not been pleasant.

They both stood in silence, watching the containment crew finish loading the New Era followers into the armored vehicles.

"Any word from Stark? Has the medivac team had contact with SHIELD?"

Tash nodded. "They landed at medical three minutes ago. They took stark immediately into the cardiac ICU. They are treating his burns currently." She gave Steve a warm smile. He enjoyed the rare sight of it. "Also, it looks like his arrhythmia straightened out on the flight over there. The arc reactor is at full function, and so is our billionaire.

Steve felt like a thousand pounds had come off his chest. He let out a shaky laugh. "Oh Thank God. I swear Nat, I thought he was a goner. I didn't think there was any way in hell he could've made it out of that mess."

Nat only gave a huff in bewildered agreement. "I know, Rogers. I know. He's one lucky yϬлЮдok."

Steve cast a look down the way to the other medical until. Thor held Jane firmly in his lap while the doctors bandaged her scrapes. It put a warm feeling in his chest that chased away the night's chill.

"Someone's smiling down on us, that's for sure."

* * *

 **If you didn't guess it, Loki is my babe. T-Hiddles is an amazing beautiful person and I couldn't stop writing his dialogue because UGH can't you just hear his voice?! Oh, it does things to my brain.**

 **ANYWAY PLEASE REVIEW, I hope you guys liked our little guest appearances by Jane and The god of Mischief. Honestly, don't bother telling me if you think I wrote Loki OOC, because I made him too nice or something, because I love him and you can never change that.**

 **Oh shit…But I love you too….dammit, don't make me pick between my children!**

 **PLEASE REVIEW PLEASE IT MAKES ME WANT TO WRITE YOU MORE.**

 **NEXT UPLOAD WILL BE ON MONDAY LATE AT NIGHT BECAUSE I MOVE IN TO SCHOOL THIS SUNDAY AHHHH.**

 **Fyi: Natasha said "He's a lucky Bastard" (insert Russian person telling me I didn't translate correctly in the reviews...I'm sorry, I tried, ok?)**


	8. F for Fire

F for Fire

* * *

 **So thank you to everyone who reviewed the last letter prompt! I know I had promised no more two-parters, but cmon, a guest appearance by Loki? I think it as worth it ;)**

 **ANYWAY, you're all evil, and so I got a lot of requests for Fire to be the next letter. Well here you are.**

 **The last one was very mission-centric, so this one and the next one, letter G, are going to be very domestic Tony.**

 **also, I am sorry for the wait, but i have spent the last week in an engineering faculty orientation, and these people are wild. I climbed a 50 foot grease pole today, guys. I'm exhausted.**

 **ENJOY, AND PLEASE FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, REVIEW. YOU DON'T EVEN NEED TO GIVE ME PROMPTS. TELL ME WHAT YOU ATE FOR LUNCH, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN.**

* * *

' _Cuz I'm_

 _B-a-a-a-ack,_

 _B-a-a-a-ack,_

 _Back in Black!_

 _Yes I'm Back in Black!'_

Tony Stark's lips were moving in tune to the words that blasted his ears. His headphones were securely clamped around his skull, and his face was dripping with sweat. His legs pounded up and down, the treadmill absorbing his weight and his impact with ease.

He ran a hand over his damp forehead and glanced at the display section on the machine. He watched his heartbeat hovering steady at 180, and glanced evilly at the calorie count.

 _Little Bastards._ Tony thought wryly.

Pepper had been on him recently about his health. He hadn't been sleeping regularly, of course, that was nothing new. But despite the gourmet smoothie maker in the kitchen, and the constant access to top chefs and dietary planners, Tony had been living off of Doritos and Mountain Dew down in the lab for the past month. He had put on about ten pounds, and Pepper had scolded him for not taking better care of himself. Really, she had just been pissed that his tuxedo needed altering before the gala last weekend. The cummerbund had struggled to fit properly, and that had tipped off Pep to the fact that he'd gained the weight. Tony remembered glaring at the suit. It had betrayed him.

Ah well. There's no time like the present. At least, that's what his horoscope had spat at him this morning. So Tony had committed himself to getting in better shape. For the past six days, he had been eating right, running every morning before breakfast, and getting at least six hours of sleep a night (which was pretty damn good for him.) He hated to admit it, but he felt fantastic – better than he had in years.

The Avengers were in quite a lull recently. The world hadn't needed saving in _weeks._ Tony wished that he could be happy for the fact that all was well and right with the universe, but the superhero couldn't help but feel bored. Where was the excitement? The danger? The steamy 'you-almost-died-on-that-mission-and-I-am-really-mad-at-you-but-so-glad-you-are-alive' sex with Pepper?!

Something terrible had to happen, and quick.

Tony watched the timer on the treadmill hit the thirty minute mark. He did an internal celebration and slowed the machine to a crawl. He hopped off, snapping his fingers at Dummy. The robot stood just off to the side with a clean rag and a spray bottle of disinfectant. The mechanical companion began to clumsily wipe down the treadmill as Tony wobbled over to the fridge, grabbing a drink. It always took a few minutes to readjust to regular ground after running for so long on the belt.

He greedily inhaled his water, wiping his face with the inside of his shirt. He pulled out his earbuds just as Creedence Clearwater Revival started to play. Pity, it was a good song.

Tony shut off the music and threw his phone onto the couch. His lab was quiet, save for the humming servo motors on Dummy as he whipped around with the cleaning supplies. The workshop was uncharacteristically orderly and neat. Tony had been much more motivated to clean things with all this new found energy. He hated to admit it, but maybe running wasn't so bad….

Nah, fuck that. Running was terrible. Tony Stark believed that there were only two reasons a person should run willingly: in a sport, with a purpose, like catching a ball or getting a touchdown or scoring a try or kicking a goal – or, you are being chased and your life depends on it. But running just for the sake of running? What the hell? Who does that? Well, Pepper…and Widow…and Steve…and – ah, well you know what? They have excuses.

Well, for Cap, it's not really fair. The man can run faster than a car for fifteen minutes and not even breathe heavy. He has to run, it's the only way he can use his metabolism and avoid combustion or something crazy like that. Widow….well she is a machine, and machine's need to stay well-oiled. And Pepper? Well, shit, it must be easy for her to jog like that when she weighs 80 pounds soaking wet.

 _My legs could keep going forever, too, if that's all the weight they had to support._ Tony scoffed and collapsed on the couch next to his phone. He wiped his forehead once more and started scrolling through his messages.

He had one text from Rhodey asking about Rangers tickets.

"Already bought them. See you Tuesday." JARVIS didn't even have to be told; the message was transcribed live on the screen and sent.

He kept scrolling. A few emails from charities…"JARVIS, send them all twenty thousand. Unless they're for kids, then send them fifty thousand. Christmas is like, what – three months away?"

"4 and a half months away, Sir."

"Ahh, close enough."

"Yes, Sir. The checks are being processed as we speak."

"Thanks buddy."

Tony rose and stretched on the leather sofa. He threw off his running shoes and put them in the corner by the door. He exited the shop, locking the door behind him. Taking the steps two at a time (because why not do _more_ cardio?), the engineer reached the landing for the elevator very quickly. A few buttons later and he was in the Avenger's suite.

Iron Man waved a nonchalant good morning to Hawkeye, who was eating cheerios with chocolate milk, next to the Black Widow who was cleaning plates so that Captain America and the Incredible Hulk could serve up their freshly made omelets to themselves and the Norse God of Thunder.

Just a typical day at home.

Tony entered the master suite just as Pepper was waking up. She gave him a quick kiss good morning, wrinkling up her nose at his sweaty face and laughed. He stripped down in the bathroom and turned on the water, but not before she came in to brush her teeth and gave him a smack on the butt. This led to a rambunctious game of naked tag which ended with Tony Stark finally getting his shower – but not by himself.

So, correction - a great day at home.

* * *

It was lunch time when Tony finally got to go outside. He had spent the whole morning in meetings with Pepper. Just because he wasn't the CEO anymore didn't mean that he wasn't present for some of the big business proposals. Pepper knew him well enough to invite him to the things that he would want to be involved in, so when she said "Tony, you need to be at these board meetings," he hardly ever argued.

Hardly.

" _Pepperrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"_ he texted her at noon. The man speaking at the hearing was about eighty years old and looked like a bargain-brand saltine.

He watched her from across the table, paying attention to Saltine Man, and kept his eyes locked on her face as she checked her phone. He smiled when her mouth gave a barely concealed twitch and her lips pursed. She typed silently back under the table.

" _What, Tony."_

" _PEPERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR"_ Tony's smile grew with childish glee as he watched her read the second message. Still, Ms. Potts successfully stifled her giggle.

" _Tony, we are not passing notes in class, here. This is a very important meeting. Have you been paying attention at all?"_

" _I've been paying enough attention to know that this old man is so white and salty, he makes me thirsty just looking at him."_

If Pepper could have, she would have put her face down on the desk.

" _Tony that is incredibly rude. Stop this instant."_

There was a pause.

" _Wanna send me some dirty pics?"_

" _TONY, NO"_

" _Remember the shower this morning? You certainly weren't saying no, then."_

" _Tony, oh my god."_

" _Now_ THAT _sounds a bit more like this morning."_

" _TONY WE ARE IN A BOARD MEETING"_

" _I'll show you my board ;) "_

" _ANTHONY EDWARD STARK"_

But Pepper was far from angry. She actually had to cover her mouth with her hand. Even then, she couldn't stop it. She tried so hard to swallow her snort of laughter, but it came out as a very loud and very unattractive sound. Saltine Man stopped talking, looking shocked as he connected the origin of the sound to the usually immaculate and professional Ms. Potts.

"Ms. Potts, are you quite alright?"

"Um, Yes, Mr. Harrison," Pep was scarlet from head to toe, flustered and still trying not to break out into a fit of giggles. Tony was having the time of his life. "I, um – I'm sorry - I sneezed. I think I'm allergic to – uh – um, my new shampoo. If – If you'll just excuse me." The man nodded in concern, his wrinkles flapping crustily, which only made Pepper's attempts not to laugh grow weaker and weaker. The Stark Industries CEO gathered up her purse very quickly from the table and rushed out to the hallway.

Tony was close on her heels. "Sorry, Mr. uh," he gestured his hand apologetically.

The man looked shocked again. It amazed Tony how one so saggy could manage to lift his eyebrows up so high on his forehead. "Harrison, Sir."

"Yes! Of course!" Tony was collecting his Armani suit jacket from the back of the office chair. "Harrison! Good man, Harrison! Good work here, I'm very proud, very impressed."

"W-Well, Thank you, Mr. Stark. You know, I've al-"

"Yup! Great, I think I should check on Ms. Potts, you see. She has a terrible strawberry allergy, and if that's what was in her shampoo, then she may require some medical assistance. Ta-ta, Boys!" and Tony also flew from the room.

Out in the hallway, Tony came across Pepper sitting on a bench far from the board room, laughing so hard that tears were welling in her eyes. The engineer couldn't help himself, he joined in, sitting beside her and pressing a noisy kiss to her temple.

Tony's grin always made Pepper happy. It was big and toothy. The way he pulled up his cheeks made his smile hit his eyes. It was a full face smile. She loved it. She loved him, as reckless and childish as he was. Between her giggles, Pepper pulled her lover in for a kiss.

Again, check that – it was a fantastic day.

The Power Couple decided unanimously that, perhaps, it was not best to return to the meeting. It was because of this choice that the two got the rare opportunity to have lunch together outside on the charmingly crowded streets of summertime Manhattan. The Cherry Blossoms and Apple trees lining the business sector were blooming quite beautifully, scattering pinks and whites across worn city sidewalks. The hustle and bustle of New York City was a familiar and friendly sound, not intimidating to the two of them as it had once been.

Tony led Pepper to the tastiest and greasiest hot dog stand he knew of. She gave him a nagging look, reminding him of his diet. He, in turn, reminded her of how good he'd been for the past week.

"C'mon, Pep. I've earned it."

She still didn't look too convinced.

He pushed further. "Ok, well then, think about all the calories we burned off this morning, I me-"

Pepper gave a yelp and clamped her hand over Tony's mouth. "Buy the hotdogs, then, Tony!"

She couldn't help but later admit that he was right. The hotdogs, though dripping with grease, were absolutely marvelous. Crispy skin with soft juicy insides, and every topping under the sun.

"Good choice, babe." And she leaned over and dabbed at his goatee with her napkin.

"Now why would you wipe my face, Pep," he teased. "That goatee is my portable food storage. I was saving that hotdog scrap for later in case I get hungry in the lab!"

Pepper snorted and turned up her face. "NOOO don't even say that, it's disgusting," She laughed, trying not to spit chunks of her own hot dog.

They teased each other for a few more minutes, going back and forth. Soon they were done with their midday meal, and they Tony rose to his feet, chivalry demanding that he collect his lady's trash and throw it away for her. She thanked him politely, flirtation in her eye. They laughed again. The day was beautiful, they were beautiful, and everything was just…good.

But things very seldom stay that way.

Tony was twenty feet from Pepper, dumping their paper plates and napkins into the city trash can, when the two cars on the street in front of him collided. Everyone on the sidewalk flinched and screamed. The impact was thunderously loud, and very ugly. The little red Beemer had to have been speeding fifty miles an hour when it struck the painfully new Subaru Forester. The Subaru, the bigger car, had taken the turn too wide on the advance green. The cars were crushed together in a mess of metal and oil.

Within moments, Pepper was behind Tony, her phone to her ear, giving specifics to first responders. Tony always admired that about her. Yes, she was a very nervous person when it came to his safety, but damn, his lady could handle herself with poise in any emergency situation. Sure, she would probably shake and cry about it later, but for now she was a rock.

Soon she was off the phone and tugging on Tony's shirt. "Oh my god, hon, do you think everyone's ok?" Her voice was laced with worry and compassion. Tony tried to peer into the vehicles but a thick smoke was starting to form and cloud everyone's view. The engineer's mind began racing – every iota of information he had stored away about automobiles and combustion engines flashed into his head in bits and pieces.

"Pep, how far away did the first responders say they were?"

"About two minutes, why?"

Tony watched the smoke turn from grey to black. "Because I don't think we have two minutes."

Pepper didn't have time to ask him what he meant, because suddenly, the driver side Beemer door swung open. An athletic man, about 35, dragged himself and his briefcase out of the car, limping and clutching a bleeding left shoulder. The crowd watching cheered, and two bystanders rushed to help him to a safe distance. The whole street had shut down, and the traffic buildup, especially at the end of lunch hour in Manhattan, was substantial. Still, nobody dared get to close to the smoking vehicle.

The wind picked up for a split second on the island, almost as if fate, and the smoke parted for a moment – but it was long enough for Tony, who had been staring intently, to make out the clear bodies of a woman and a young teenager in the driver and passenger seats of the Subaru, both unconscious – hopefully just unconscious. He didn't hesitate for another moment.

He called over his shoulder as he ran into the street. "Pep, call the police back and let them know that there are two victims in the second car – both unresponsive!"

He didn't look back at Pepper, but he knew that her eyes would be getting very big and very angry. "TONY!?" she screamed after him. "TONY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! TONY, NO!"

"JUST DO IT, PEPPER."

Tony heard her give up the fight and get back on the phone. He was about ten feet from the accident now, and he had to have a plan.

Tony knew he couldn't lift the hood at this point and ventilate – it was too late. Providing a swell of oxygen to the engine fire would cause a flashover, an explosion, and imminent death to the two victims in the car – well, and himself, but that was not the priority right now. He mentally scolded himself for not wearing his iron bands – the little tracking bracelets for the Mark VIII.

Just then, a loud pop sounded from under the hood of the car. The hissing that followed it put a knot of dread in Tony's stomach. He was standing still now, his hand reaching for the front door handle. Anthony Stark was not a cowardly man by any measure, but it was taking all he had to stifle his Fight-or-Flight instincts. This car was a ticking time bomb, and it could explode at any moment.

Heat was radiating off of the wreckage in waves, drying Tony's face and making his skin feel stretched tight. He tentatively grabbed for the metal door handle. It was hot to the touch. Simply out of precaution, Tony ripped off his hundred dollar tie and strapped it around his hand. It served like an oven mitt, allowing him to pry open the dimpled metal. With the door out of the way, Tony had to work on seatbelts.

"Ma'am? Ma'am can you hear me?" Ton was speaking directly to the mother in the driver seat, hoping desperately that she would wake up and manage to get herself free so Tony could work on the kid. The teenage son in the passenger seat looked much worse for wear. A large laceration to his forehead boded ill to him regaining consciousness anytime soon, and his right shoulder looked completely separated from his torso – shit, well, maybe it was better that he stayed out a little longer then. Tony did not envy the pain that kid would be in when he woke up.

Tony almost cheered when the woman gave a small twitch. Her head rolled to face him, a small trickle of crusted blood standing out boldly against her pale forehead.

"M…..M' son?" She could hardly keep her eyes open. Tony looked at her, panicked and maternal even in this dazed state, and then looked back to her kid.

"He's…He's fine. He's already safe. I need you to look at me, though, alright? Keep looking at me. What's your name, sweetheart?"

Tony knew he was lying, but the look of peace that washed over the mother's face was worth it.

"M…Maureen. I'm Maureen."

"Alright Maureen, can you do me a favor? Can you keep those beautiful eyes open for me? I'm going to unbuckle your seat belt, and then I'm going to help you out of the car. Does your neck hurt? Can you feel your legs?" She responded positively to everything. This was going smoother than Tony could have hoped for.

But all too soon, the car gave another jolt and the front hood began to shake with the building pressure. Tony licked his lips, the sweat dripping down his face was menacing, and not nearly as encouraging at it had been this morning on the treadmill.

"Ok, Maureen, the car is going to be very not safe in a very short amount of time. I'm going to help you out, and then I need you to keep walking and not turn around. At all. Do not look back here, do you understand me?" Tony shot another look at her son. His face was now covered in his own blood, his breathing was becoming ragged. He needed help immediately. Luckily, Maureen was far too concussed to ask questions, because as soon as she was out of the car, she just started stumbling towards the sidewalk, never looking back. Tony thanked the heavens when Pepper ran forward to grab the woman just before she fell. Miss Potts helped her over to the sidewalk, a safe distance of thirty feet away.

Tony could hear the sirens getting closer and closer now - had to be less than a minute left to wait. He shot another glance at the kid. Tony was heaving and coughing terribly in the smoke; it filled his lungs and stung his eyes. Another gasket blew under the hood. The smoke was everywhere, now, coming into the car through the vents. Tony was getting dizzy. Time was up.

Tony Stark turned slowly back to face the sidewalk. He found Pepper's face in an instant. His lover had given Maureen to another group of civilians – one of which appeared to be a nurse on lunch break, guessing by her scrubs. That was good, Maureen would be ok.

Pepper's eyes met his. They were full of anxiety and confusion. God she was beautiful. He took a split moment to appreciate her. Her hair, the way the sunlight always seemed to hit it just right…He loved her eyes, that professional set of them that hid so well how absolutely mischievous and giddy she could be. He looked at her long legs, her smooth slender fingers that held his strong calloused ones so perfectly. He looked at her. Just looked.

And he appreciated, because this may be the last time he'd have the chance.

And Pepper stared back, because she realized the exact same thing just a moment too late to stop him.

Tony ran around to the passenger side of the car just as Pepper started screaming. He heard her struggling – somebody was holding her back from the wreck. Good. Pepper would be ok.

Tony discarded the tie wrapped around his hand and pulled with all his strength to open the crushed door. The metal blistered the skin on his hands, but he managed to pull the door to the side.

He didn't have time to stabilize the boy's spine – he doubted he would have time to blink. The seatbelt was off, and Tony was pulling the kid to the pavement by his good shoulder when the flames caught on the hood. The smoke was replaced by a blinding yellow and red flash, and then it happened.

Tony reacted as quickly as he could, pulling the kid, who couldn't have been more than 14, into his arms and rolling away. He cradled the boy against his stomach, lying on his left side on the street, shielding the younger human's body, just as the car exploded.

And it goddamn exploded.

The vehicle shot about seven feet backwards and into the air. Flames rose in pillars on both sides. The Beemer's front fender melted against the heat, sticking the rubber tires to the asphalt. The Subaru went up in a ball of fire, engulfed and spitting viciously in every direction. Bystanders screamed on the street, feeling the heat rush malevolently over their faces even from over thirty feet away. The firetruck that had just arrived screeched to a halt, its uniformed occupants scrambling in every direction trying to contain the worst of the flames. Shrapnel from the engine flew in a 360 degree radius. Folks standing to the north side were covered in antifreeze splatter and brake fluid while those on the east side were brushing flaming ball bearings from their hair. It was a mess.

People were shooting orders and warnings from all corners of the block, but nobody was shouting as loud as Pepper Potts.

"TONY!" Her cries were long and anguished. Tears were sprinting down her porcelain white face. To think, only minutes ago, she had been crying from laughter. Now she was sobbing in desolation. She had tried to run out, to grab him – but two uniformed police officers had held her back. Now she fought against them again, but only briefly. In seconds, she was on her knees, hands running through her hair, panic and pain etched into her features.

The whole intersection was a mass of charred car parts and flaming puddles of gasoline. The smoke was so thick that nobody could make heads or tails of what was alive in its center. The fire department was wetting down the flames on the outside of the wreck, but the heat and the smoke were so intense that they couldn't rush in to find out if anyone had survived. Everyone on the sidewalks had collectively given up hope that the brave man and the young child had lived. They turned their heads away from the accident in respect and in mourning. But not Pepper. Pepper watched the fires swell and lash. She kept her eyes fixed on the smoke and ash. She refused to give up hope. She refused to give up on Tony Stark.

When she first saw the silhouette in the smog, she thought she was hallucinating. She figured that grief had driven her mad. But when she saw it, becoming clearer and clearer, more shape, more outline. Pepper shot to her feet, clutching onto the officers and pointing into the flames.

The two blue bloods squinted at first, not seeing what she had seen – but then the shadow came closer, looking strangely oblong. They both gripped their shoulder radios and started swiftly giving orders. Within seconds, EMTs were at Pepper's side, advancing into the smoke in the direction the officers pointed them in.

But there was no need for the emergency workers to go into the smoke - the shadow was emerging onto the street.

From the dark swirls and tendrils of unbreathable fumes, Tony Stark wobbled his way into safety. He was staggering dangerously, his face pale and sweaty in pain and heat exhaustion. In his arms, the 14 year old was swaddled securely. He almost refused to let him go when the officers grabbed them both, but his arms just sort of gave out. The two men collected the boy and rushed him into one of the awaiting EMT units. The other medics rushed forward onto the street and grabbed Tony just as he collapsed.

Pepper felt her heart stop at the sight of her love. Tony was face down on the street, his elbows trying to support his body and get back up. The EMT's were holding him down. His face was blanched and covered in soot. His lungs were damaged from all the smoke and gas inhalation, and his breathing could be heard from the next street. It was wet and halting, but it was there. Tony was there. He was safe. Pepper's legs were jelly. She couldn't bring herself to stand. All she could do was sit on the side of the curb and thank whoever was up there that they hadn't taken her Tony away from her.

After twenty or so seconds, the EMT's were radioing in for a backboard. Pep watched, not wanting to get in the way, from the curb. But alarms sounded in her head as she watched them load Tony onto the backboard – but on his stomach. Concern trumped her jelly limbs and Pep finally managed to hustle over to her boyfriend's side. She peered over the corner of the EMT, about to ask why they were laying him on his stomach.

The moment she looked, she found her explanation.

The moment she found her explanation, she wished she had stayed on the sidewalk.

Pepper recalled with a devestating blow how Ton had shielded the boy in passenger seat - he had put the child to his chest and his back to the car; and now, the consequences of that action were plainly visible. Tony's whole back was burned. _Melted_. The skin was bubbling, cracked, bleeding, scarred, charred – every which way. His suit shirt had melted and burned on top of it all, fusing the fabric into his skin. It was the most disgusting thing Pepper had ever seen. She backed up wildly, throwing her hands out to her sides. She ran back to the bench and vomited into the nearby trashcan, her freshly consumed hotdog coming back up with zero digestion accomplished. It was not a pretty sight.

But, oh god. Tony was much, much worse.

Pepper got into the ambulance with the EMTs and thanked Christ that Tony was unconscious on the board. She couldn't even begin to imagine the pain.

Almost as if he was reading her mind, the very young EMT across from her spoke up.

"Ma'am, I know it looks really bad, but usually with degree burns of this…caliber, the victims can't feel a thing. Not until they start to heal. The fire kills the nerves to the point where there is no pain."

Pepper just stared at him. That didn't make her feel any better.

The ambulance pulled into the docking bay at the hospital with a screeching halt. The emergency workers expertly rushed to and fro, making Pepper dizzy with the rapidity of their movements.

Almost without her comprehension, Tony was rushed from her side and wheeled past a set of sterile doors on her right. The last glimpse Pepper got of her best friend and best lover was of a set of gloved hands pressing gauze onto his blistering shoulders.

* * *

Steve was flipping through the _Time_ s and eating his lunch when the phone rang in the kitchen. Barton called from the couch to remind him that it was his turn to answer it, and despite the fact that Steve had actually answered it four times in a row that morning, he begrudgingly groaned and jumped up to stifle the ringing. The phone came off the receiver and he held it casually to his ear. He didn't even have a chance to get out a quick "Hello" before a high pitched and strained voice assaulted his auditory range.

Steve listened for several seconds without saying a word.

Barton felt the tension in the air and shut off the TV immediately. He sat upright with an urgency seldom seen in the carefree superhero. One look at his team's leader and he knew that the morning of relaxation was over. Barton was up and by Rogers' side before the blonde could say a word.

Steve nodded and said abrupt words, "yes", "no", "absolutely"- it only made Clint more nervous. Steve hung up and looked into the archer's eyes. What Barton saw there only made the ball of dread in his stomach grow bigger.

"What's the mission?"

"It's not a-" Steve's voice broke slightly and he stopped. His eyes were full of sorrow, and his entire body was blanched white and rigid. That's when Clint knew that this wasn't a call to duty, this wasn't the end of the world. This was personal. Steve's next words were a sucker punch to the gut.

"It's Tony."

* * *

Everything was loud. Loud and itchy. Why was everything so loud and itchy? Whose idea was this?

Tony scrunched his nose. It was itchy. His whole mouth was cotton, his tongue was a brick and his throat was sandpaper.

The skin on his face felt crinkled and dry, his hands were in desperate need of moisturizer, and something smelled.

What was that smell? Well, whatever it was, it was assaulting his olfactory receptors. It was like someone had left a pot roast in the oven for much too long and it had burned.

Burned.

Fire.

Smoke.

Car.

Kid.

Pepper.

Tony?

Everything rushed back and hit him like a bus – well, maybe that wasn't a great analogy for right now, but regardless, Tony felt his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to get up, to open his eyes, to run far, far, away - to go see Pepper and make sure she was alright, to avoid open flames for the rest of his life – he just had to do something.

Tony felt his muscles contracting, his back arching in the air as his mind went into panic mode. A wave of pain crashed into him, only sending him into a spiral of nausea and confusion. His adrenal glands pumped over time and his fight or flights were screaming "flight" 110%. Tony needed to move. He thought he heard screaming, but he couldn't be sure if it was coming from him or not.

Tony needed to run.

In his mind, the flames were chasing him.

In his mind, he was burning.

* * *

Externally, heart monitors were going haywire.

Nurses were sprinting into the room as Natasha called loudly into the hallway. Steve and Barton were trying to hold Tony down as gently as possible against his manic thrashing.

"STARK, STARK CALM DOWN. STARK WAKE UP. STARK!?" Steve was screaming into Tony's face, but it was all drowned out by Tony's own cries – and they were dreadful. Absolutely the worst sound they had ever heard. His lungs were raw and damaged from smoke inhalation, and his throat had been cracked and bleeding from the heat when the EMTs had brought him in, so now it was nails on a chalkboard every time air escaped his vocal chords.

Tony was reeling, throwing his back up off the bed, sending gauze pads flying and his blistered back was splitting and oozing a bloody pus all over his sterile sheets.

The doctor had suggested that now, after almost three full days of a medically induced sleep, it may be a good time to wake Tony up.

Obviously, they were wrong.

Steve cursed loudly, but in the hectic room nobody cared to take notice. This had not been a good idea at all. Rogers could only think of the mother and child that were safe in the other wing of the hospital – all because Tony had to be a goddamn hero.

Dammit, Steve was trying so hard to be mad at Tony, but the man made it nearly impossible.

The nurses quickly pumped as much morphine into Tony's lines as they safely could. The doctor swooped in and pushed some other concoction through the IV shortly after. Steve didn't know what they were giving him, but soon after Tony was still and breathing steadily, so honestly Captain America could not care less.

The whole team, shaken, regrouped to the vigil they had been holding for over 72 hours now, ever since Pepper had called Steve in absolute tears from the emergency room. Widow and Bruce sat quietly beneath the window and focused on nothing but their thoughts.

Hawkeye had perched himself at the foot of Tony's bed. Nobody touched him – not even the nurses – until Hawkeye gave them a once over. Steve sat next to the doorway, the guard of whoever entered the room as well as all hallway activity. This operation had been in place for many days now, and would likely be in place for many more.

But regardless of how long it took Tony to recover, his team would be here – ever vigilant.

Because that's what a family does.

* * *

 **Again, sorry for the wait, guys, and i hope you liked the chapter. I did the best i could in the time frame i had, and i think it came out fairly well. I certainly enjoyed writing this one. Thank you to the many people who suggested this prompt, G will be gunshot.**

 **I am looking for H and up in alphabet. Thanks guys! I love you all!**

 **Now that school has started for me, I will be trying to post once a week instead of twice a week and im sorry, but its the best i can do. I will be posting on saturdays from now on!**


	9. G for Gunshot

**G for Gunshot**

* * *

 **Hey there folks, thank you so much for the reviews! Keep them coming!**

 **And as a treat, you guys are getting Tony whump AND Clint/Hawkeye Whump…because im cruel and those are my boyz.**

 **School is absolutely nuts, here guys. I am an engineering major at an Ivy League school. Tears. Lots of Tears.**

 **Anyway, G is for Gunshot, get ready for some shot!Tony AND some injured Hawkeye. Hell yah.**

* * *

Hawkeye punched in the sequence code on the control panel. His nimble fingers flying expertly over the keypad, a code well-rehearsed by almost everyone at SHIELD. The command room doors retracted smoothly and noiselessly.

"Sir," Barton gave a pleasant yet professional nod at Commander Nick Fury who sat at his spotless desk angrily eating a very pathetic salad.

Honestly, Nick Fury was the only man who could make you pity a salad. The poor little pieces of lettuce, the cucumber – they were being stabbed to death before being crushed and gnashed between the older man's merciless teeth. At first, Barton tried to ignore the situation, collectedly picking up the file he had been sent to retrieve and placing it in his backpack. But that propriety didn't last long at all. Clint, being Clint of course, couldn't resist pointing out his observations aloud.

"Geez, sir, what did that salad do to you? Are you practicing new interrogation methods? Cuz I gotta say, they are working. I'm scared shitless." Barton's smirk caused Fury's lone eye to narrow in reproach.

"I will have you know, Agent," Fury hissed, "That _this-_ " he gestured grandly to the mewling bowl of vegetables. "This was Maria's idea. NOT mine." And with that, he went back to grumbling and devouring his pitiful lunch.

On cue, SHIELD Senior Agent Maria Hill bustled past the two of them, coming out from her own work station just long enough to interlude with her stack of papers resting comfortably on her hip. "Commander Fury's cholesterol levels came back yesterday from SHIELD medical. They were abnormally high. His doctor recommended more fiber and less red meat."

"AND I TOLD YOU THAT I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY CHOL-"

"As senior agent, sir, it is my duty to keep you alive, even if the only enemy is your affinity for double bacon cheeseburgers."

"I CAN EASILY STRIP YOU OF THOSE DUTIES." Fury's threats were as empty as his stomach, and the whole room knew it.

Maria smiled with a frustrating blend of satisfaction and politeness. "I'd like to see you try, Sir."

And with that, she resumed her duties, leaving Fury with his mouth open and defeat written across his face in sharpie. Clint just snorted with laughter and turned back to the door.

The salad bowl smacked the wall just to the left of his head, scattering carrot shavings across the floor. Barton just laughed harder and ducked out of the room as quickly as he could manage.

The archer was on the sidewalk making his way back home to Stark tower and whipped out his phone. He wirelessly started transmitting music to his hearing aids – a little trick that Tony had cooked up in the lab.

"Think about it like Bluetooth," Tony had said, presenting the archer with the gifts. "Except ten times better - with automated connectivity, voice recognition, artificial surround sound, noise cancellation, Imax setting for movie watching, top of the line water proofing…" The list had gone on and on, and Barton had sat through the whole spiel dumbfounded. He couldn't remember half the features Tony had upgraded his aids with, but he did remember the look on Stark's face when Barton had swiftly risen from the lab stool and enveloped the engineer in a warm, brotherly hug. Tony had looked shocked at first, unassuming of how much the gift meant, obviously. But Barton had seen the last glimmer of contentedness that had lingered on the engineer's face. All he ever wanted was to do good things for the team, and he never realized how much everyone appreciated him. That hug was a little piece of proof, and Barton recalled how Tony had acted the whole rest of that day – he had been walking on air. He baked, he had dropped off Bruce's lunch at his lab. He even did his laundry, something that people had been trying to get him to do for at least thirty years.

Sometimes, people just need to feel needed, and it can change their whole outlook.

Barton smiled to himself, tapping his left aid to turn up the volume of the song that had just streamed directly into his ear. "Walking in Memphis" blasted majestically, and he picked up his pace to match the beat of the classic song.

* * *

About four songs and a bus ride later, Barton was less than a block from home, and a loud snapping sound, like cracking wood, penetrated the Stark Tech noise cancellation in his hearing aids.

Barton brought his right hand up rapidly to his ears, tapping twice on his hearing aid to shut the music off completely. A quick voice command set the aids to combat mode, where all senses were heightened – another amazing feature.

Damn, Clint really needed to thank Tony again.

Bringing himself back to the situation at hand, Barton listened closely, trying to hear past the alarmed people around him…

One second went by…two seconds…three…

 _BANG._

A horridly loud gunshot, followed by an uproar of screaming and panicking voices, just on the next street intersection.

Clint didn't even need to think, he just started running. He yelled to JARVIS, who also had direct access to his aids, and told him the situation.

"J, I think there's a shooter nearby, possible civilian casualties, possible hostages, I really don't know, but call whoever is nearby, understood? Send them the location when I get there! We might need the team." Barton was speaking steadily despite his sprinting pace.

"Understood, Agent Barton," The accented AI voice remained ever calm, but with audible comprehension of the urgency of the situation.

Clint rounded the corner, dodging the panicking civilians, and instinctively reached for his concealed sidearm. He withdrew the weapon, holding it low and in a crouch. He scanned the street for immediate threats, and systematically swept the area behind an abandoned car. He stayed low and well hidden, allowing himself to peer over the trunk at the scene before him.

The street was filled with fleeing people, mothers grabbing their children and sprinting in no specific direction, just leaving. Businessmen were abandoning suitcases and portfolios, sirens were blaring in the distance. Through the madness, it was very difficult for Clint to spot the origin of the kerfuffle. Despite his keen eyes, he found himself squinting.

The epicenter of the shooting seemed to be dispersing, emptying quickly of all bystanders. Clint searched the windows of the business sector, searching intently for the perpetrator. He was looking for something – anything to give away a possible location or even a _reason_ for what was happening…

 _There._

The New York Dominion Bank, sitting smack dab in the center of the beautifully paved street. The blinds were all being drawn, one of the windows was cracked, and a clean grey smoke poured from the doorway - a smoke bomb, something to disorient the people inside, no doubt, before the criminal ran in and locked the place down.

Barton expertly assessed the situation. Bank robbery – _Fucking A_. This was such a classic cops and robbers scenario. He couldn't help but feel a little excited.

An operation like this would take at least half a dozen highly skilled professional thieves if they were going to pull it off. They struck during lunchtime, when the most tellers would be gone and the business for the day would be at its peak – businessmen using their own hour breaks to withdraw money. Everyone in that bank would have fresh cash in their wallets, and even if the thieves couldn't raid the vaults, they would make out with several thousand in people's private funds.

Barton studied his surroundings for a few more seconds, knowing that soon, the window for him to get in and try to help would be over. The shooting and the smoke bomb had happened less than sixty seconds ago, and soon, the criminals would lock down the rest of the bank – there would be no way in or out. Barton had to go in, it was the only way the people inside the bank might stand a chance.

With a quick stabilizing breath, Barton sprung from his position, running across the street in long, determined strides. He holstered his concealed weapon seamlessly while hurtling over an abandoned bike. Clint ran over the sidewalk, up the bank steps, through the door, past the curtain of quickly dissipating smoke, and let himself crouch, unnoticed, against a wall.

And just in the nick of time.

"Alright, my friends. Its closing time!"

A loud and commanding English accent, dripping with egomania and sadism, rang out and hushed the various sounds in the bank. His cronies all responded back, the same national lull in their voices as well – Hawkeye couldn't place the exact spot in England, but if he had to guess, they were all from the South.

Barton's original assumptions had been right – there were six of them. Six men in the bank, all armed heavily, all very mean looking, and all very vigilant. Quickly, they all began issuing orders and code words. Three men immediately left the room, heading down to the vaults. Barton watched them whipping out bags and fake key cards – he had to hand it to them, they had come very well prepared.

The three Englishmen that remained with the hostages were by far the nastiest of the group, one being the obvious leader. He gazed around, a sickening look of pride on his scarred face, and strolled into the group of civilians.

A few people started to quietly cry and panic when the man walked through the crowd. A quick gunshot to the ceiling silenced everything.

Hostages ceased their whimpers. Feet ceased their shuffling. The smoke cleared. The lights were turned off. The door was shut. And locked.

Barton blinked roughly, peering through the dimness, and his eyes settled in surprise on a familiar face across the room.

The face looked back.

And for a split moment, Barton was comforted by the fact that his friend was here. Maybe they would be able to communicate silently across the room, "hostage to hostage", and figure out a plan. That would be excellent, that would be very professional, that would be very suave – but apparently not very _Tony Stark_.

"CLINT! You crazy son of a bitch! How are you?!"

Tony Stark, sitting leisurely on the ground with one knee up and his arm resting across it, waved happily to his friend on the other side of the room. The man was dressed in his business suit, a bank note slip in his hand, and his four-hundred dollar sunglasses hanging causally from the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't know you used NY Dominion! Why didn't you ever tell me? I could have upgraded your account for you ages ago - much better interest rates. The CEO owes me a favor. Security breaches and all that. But enough about banking; how has your day been so far, buddy?"

Tony was literally yelling this exchange across the room, attracting everyone's attention. All the while, Barton was waving and gesticulating wildly, shushing him in desperate attempts to go unnoticed.

" _Dammit, Stark, will you shut up?!"_ Clint shot across the room as softly and harshly as he could. But no, that would never deter Anthony Stark, no sir.

"Why would I shut up, Featherface? We're already hostages, doesn't mean we can't enjoy the experience! Honestly, if I had my portable martini bar right now, we could all have one hell of a party. I should program JARVIS to remind me of that from now on when I go to the bank. You never know who might need a stiff drink, you know, other than me, of course. Did I ever tell you about the ti-"

Finally, the men with the guns had had enough. The one who had just shut and locked the door, most likely the ringleader, shouted at Tony to be quiet, and walked up next to the engineer, barrel pointing straight down between Tony's eyes. Barton felt absolutely sick at the mere sight of the gun to Tony's face, but the man in question was completely undisturbed.

"Oi! Quiet, you, or I'll pump you full o' lead."

"That's rather cliché, don't you think?" Tony gave the man a smug grin.

Barton had to screw his eyes shut and physically restrain himself from killing Stark before the thief did.

"You've got balls, my friend. That's for sure." His laugh died down, though, and his voice dropped to a menacing level. "But let's see how brave you are when you're bleedin' to death, nice and slow-like, on a cold tile floor." And the threat hung in the air. And Tony simply nodded, no fear on his face, but not cocky by any means.

"Understood, amigo. Understood." Satisfied with Tony's reply, the man walked back from the hostages and joined his friends behind the counter.

They gave the spiel, of course. _Nobody be a hero, nobody try to call anyone, nobody try to organize anything, no talking, and blah blah blah blah_. All the hostages huddled on the floor sat in silence, eyes growing wider by the minute. Hawkeye ignored the majority of the speech (he was breaking all of its rules anyway) and studied each captive one by one, trying to determine who would be of use during the escape.

The one furthest on the left was a middle aged Asian woman. Professional hairstyle, expensive shoes, but a worn and hefty briefcase - a professor maybe, collegiate level undoubtedly. Chalk powder on her black, knee-length skirt confirmed the theory. While she didn't seem to be panicking, she was visibly nervous. Her hands were wringing in her blouse, her cheek giving a twitch sporadically. Nervousness was to be expected of course, but all things considered, she was handling it quite well. Barton could almost see her formulating her own plan in her mind, working out game plans for different scenarios – _very academic of her_ , he mused. She would be useful. She could be trusted to hold it together.

The one next to her was an older man, sixty maybe – Caucasian, balding, judging from leg length, no taller than 5' 7". Based on the state of his armpit stains and his glistening head, along with the way he was clutching at his stomach, it didn't take an expert spy to realize this man would be useless. Irritable bowel syndrome, onset anxiety, profuse perspiration, and all in all, on the border of a panic attack.

The next two hostages were old Wall Street fat cats, both in the upper edge of their eighties, completely useless physically to anything Barton could try to formulate. But hey, at least they looked good in their six thousand dollar suits.

The last three hostages were all younger – well, one of them, of course, being Tony Stark – and all seemed rather calm as well, though the two non-avenger civilians were understandably frightened. One female – a university student, perhaps. One, a young accountant - judging by the bulge of his pocket calculator in his blazer; and then, of course, Iron Man himself.

Barton caught Tony's eye, luckily, from across the room, and then gazed back up to the men holding them all hostage. They weren't stupid, that's for sure. At least two of them had Ivy League backgrounds – their hairlines and stature spoke clearly. Also, they had trained properly for this. They refused to take their eyes off the hostages. They understood the dangers of human error.

Barton looked back at Tony. Their eyes met for a brief moment and there was understanding – they couldn't speak, nor could they mouth anything to one another.

Ah well, Morse code it is.

Barton brought his hand silently and smoothly to the ground, passing it off as a fidget. He raised his index finger. Almost inaudibly, he moved his finger up and down on the ground, over exaggerating his movements so that Tony could see the code, not have to hear it.

Tony smartly made it look as though he was gazing absentmindedly at the wall, "zoning out" perhaps, but really, Barton watched triumphantly as understanding and complete focus rose in Tony's eyes.

Barton Tapped.

" _Suit?"_

Tony tapped on his knee, making it look like a completely causal strum of the fingers.

" _No."_

" _JARVIS?"_

" _No."_

Tony then paused, and tapped another line.

" _But you have JARVIS?"_

" _Yes. Called Team before hostage."_

" _Good shit, Barton."_

" _Thank you, Stark."_

" _Should be here soon. Police, too."_

" _Police are outside already. They can't come in – hostages. Negotiations necessary."_

" _True. Do you have plan?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Share?"_

" _You. Briefcase."_

" _I don't have briefcase."_

" _USE BRIEFCASE. Save me."_

" _Don't understand!"_ But Tony paused again. Ever the genius.

" _Understand soon?"_

And Barton nodded.

The nod was so small, just enough to make Tony think it was a part of their communications, but just big enough to attract attention from their supervisors. He wasn't sure the perps would notice it – but he certainly hoped so.

"HEY!" The shout was brutal, startling everyone. The old men in the corner closed their eyes, praying to their god of money. The sweaty guy clutched at his chest, praying to his aspiring regimen, and the professor simply pursed her lips and held her breath.

One of the men, not the leader but still a formidable enemy, ran across the bank and got right into Barton's face.

The plan was coming together nicely.

"Was that a nod I saw, mate? Who was it that you felt the need to nod to? Who were you talkin' to? Huh?"

Barton said nothing. He put on his blankest assassin stare.

This infuriated the man. "WHO WERE YOU TALKIN' TO?"

Nothing.

"ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!" And the man swung the barrel of his gun down and whipped it across Barton's face.

Clint's cheek exploded in pain. He felt his jaw crunch and the blood running down the split in his skin just below his temple. He screwed his eyes shut, his head lolled to one side, and felt hot, bitter liquid pooling in his mouth. He raised his gaze to the man who had struck him; it was cold as ice. If the man knew any better, he would have run for the hills. But this man did not know who Clint Barton was, so he pressed on like an absolutely idiot.

On the other side of the room, Tony physically cringed. Anger welled in his stomach like acid. Nobody hurts Barton. Nobody. He gazed desperately around the room, looking for anyone or anything that he could use to – briefcase? His eyes settled on the Asian professor. Then to her lap.

 _Briefcase._

Tony understood.

The Englishman was not done roughing up Barton however, while Stark was enjoying his epiphany.

"I said," and he grabbed Clint by the back of his hair, yanking his head up to stare directly into his eyes. "Who was you noddin' at, my friend? And you better answer me this time or I swear to God Almighty I will shoot you in the chest."

Barton looked up at the man…

…And then spit all the blood out of his mouth and into the fucker's face.

The man reeled back with a screech, wiping it off, and Barton started talking.

"I was nodding at your mother, Harry Potter, to remind her what a good time we had last night."

"YOU FUCKIN' PRICK!" And he pointed his gun at Barton and put his finger on the trigger.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion. The other Englishmen were running and shouting at their compatriot not to shoot, Barton was preparing himself to _get_ shot, and Tony was –

Wait, where the hell is Tony?

 _SMACK._

Harry Potter went down like a sack of bricks, his head sent reeling to the side from a heavy handed hit to the back of the skull with nothing other than the professor's briefcase, wielded by none other than Iron Man.

Tony yelled a triumphant huzzah (literally, a goddamn huzzah), and grabbed Clint by the forearm pulling him rapidly to his feet.

The moment he was standing, Clint drew his concealed sidearm and started firing expertly upon the two remaining men. The first one took two perfectly aimed shots to the chest and fell to the ground lifeless in a matter of seconds; the leader took advantage of his friend's misfortune and found cover behind the teller's desk.

From there, it was a standoff. Barton shooting at the bank robber, the bank robber shooting back. Meanwhile, Tony helped to evacuate the hostages. The university student and the accountant, the youngest in the group, helped the older men get out; and then Tony kindly returned the professors briefcase, shielding her from shattering drywall and debris with his coat.

It took less than a minute to get everyone out. The police met all the civilians in the street, pushing them to safety. But it wasn't the police that Tony was happiest to see.

On the sidewalk, in all their glory, was his team - or at least, the two other members of his team that were in Manhattan today.

Natasha was strapping on a sleek Kevlar. Steve was marching straight towards Tony, concern mixed with relief plastered all over his face. Tony was grateful they were here. He watched them handle some of the hostages, asking quick questions, gazing back at the bank. Tony waved them forward, calling them into the building. Clint might need help.

Barton only had three more bullets to fire when Tony slid in next to him behind the corner office wall.

"Nat and Steve are here, they're just outside. They're gonna come in and help us finish up."

Clint snorted, pulling off another shot towards the teller's desk. "I don't see a lot of _us_ finishing up. I seem to be doing-" a shot fired close to them; they both ducked and covered their ears. "-ALL THE WORK!" Barton shouted over the noise, firing his second to last bullet with expert marksmanship back at the edge of the wooden desk; the bullet didn't hit the wood with the familiar crack, instead, they heard a grunt and cry.

Clint stuck his head out from behind the wall, pleased to see that his bullet had struck home.

Baddy number 1 was on the ground, curled up, clutching at his leg. The bullet had skimmed the edge of the bar and shattered his unprotected knee cap. It made Tony cringe – that had to be a world of hurt.

A sound at the street door made both Avengers turn – Nat and Steve burst through the entrance and took in the sight around them. Both were visibly impressed and relieved to see that their friends were unhurt. It wasn't normal that they got to charge in somewhere and see all the work done for them.

Everyone was kind of at a loss.

"Uh, wow! Good, uh, good work, guys." Steve nodded, hands on hips.

Nat walked right to Barton, holstering her own weapon. She spoke not a single word, and her face hardly changed expression at all. She just stared.

"You're hurt." She said blankly. She brought a hand up to his cheek, the swelling was already reaching impressive levels, and the bruise was a deep purple. The gash from the butt of the gun was crusted and gruesome.

"Looks worse than it is, Tash." He reassured her.

"You could be concussed."

"Yah, but I'm not."

She nodded.

He nodded.

 _God, those two are weird._

It was Steve who coughed, interrupting the silence. "Alright, team, well I guess there isn't much for us to do, now. Excellent, um, shooting, Hawkeye." Steve gestured nonchalantly to the criminal lying on the ground. Luckily for him, he had passed out from the pain, and was nothing more than a lump on the floor. I'll get someone to put him in with medical. Eventually." Steve looked at Tony, now.

"And Stark, what the hell were you thinking, running into a fight without the suit – or any weapons at all, for that matter?!"

"Funny Story, Cap, you see I wasn't actually called into the fight. I was here. Banking."

"You…you were one of the hostages?"

"Well, I wouldn't say a hostage. I was rather useful!" Tony was growing more and more indignant at the amused grins spreading over everyone's face. "Hey! None of that, I-I used the briefcase! I was important - instrumental, even, in our escape plan. Tell him, Barton! Tell him!"

Barton donned a dreadfully wry smile. "He was crying like a little girl: _please, scary Englishman, don't shoot me!_ "

The team started to laugh, Tony all the while blustering about how he wasn't appreciated enough and that never ONCE did he cry to the "scary man" and that Barton could shove it up his ass.

After a minute of this, Tony threw his hands up in resignation, and he crossed the large floor and sat in the corner on one of the waiting room chairs. He played with an annoying plant while his team set about to do cleanup.

If they hadn't all been teasing the resident engineer, perhaps they all would have heard the sneaking footsteps coming up behind them; but Steve was outside calling in a paramedic team, and Natasha was in the middle of a communication with Director Fury to let him know that the situation had been handled. Barton was still busy laughing to himself as he checked, unprimed, and holstered his sidearm.

It was only Tony, who had resigned himself to the other side of the room out of annoyance at his friends, who heard the shuffling sound.

He whipped around to the back of the bank, eyes locked on the figures emerging from the rear hallway.

The other three men.

They had completely forgotten about them – they had been gone this whole time, loading up their bags in the vaults.

They didn't see Tony, as he was sitting in a pout behind a plotted fichus – but they saw the archer, standing out in the open, his back to them, unarmed - and they drew their weapons.

Tony barely had time to breathe before he was up and running, sprinting with all his might across the tiled floor.

"GET DOWN!" The engineer cried, throwing himself at Clint just as the three men at the other end of the bank opened fire.

Bullets whizzed past, and Tony tackled Barton with all his might, slamming them both into the hard floor. Clint cried out in shock and pain as his already damaged face connected with the tile. In a second, Nat was beside them, guns firing, finding her targets with lethal precision. Steve's shield arrived before he did, knocking into one poor man's chest, breaking every one of his ribs and undoubtedly severing his spinal cord from the inside. Clint lay dazed on the ground for the duration of the gun fight, faintly feeling a growing warmth on his shoulder. His ears were ringing, his vision was speckled. He was completely disorientated.

The police outside were retreating again, reestablishing barriers, not letting anyone through at the new chorus of gunfire.

The last three men were all dead in less than thirty seconds.

Nat was focused on them. Steve was focused on them.

But Barton was focused on the pain in his face, and the blood running down his chest.

"Shit - dammit! I'm hit guys- fuck!" Barton was gasping, his head throbbing. He wiped at his shoulder, probing for the bullet hole that he was expecting to find. But…it wasn't there…

"Hawkeye, status report?" Steve's commanding voice echoed loudly in the empty bank He caught his returning shield and turned wildly to see the large blood stain on Hawkeye's shirt. "Where are you hit?!"

Nat and Steve were at his side in an instant, hands searching, pressing down, trying to stop the bleed.

"I'm…I'm not?" Hawkeye was as confused as them. "No, I am not hit." He repeated, shocked. "I am not hit."

Everyone's shoulder sagged with relief for a split moment – until realization dawned on them.

Steve spoke aloud, his voice trailing off. "Then, whose blood…?"

The realization hit Captain Rogers before anyone else, and his face went staggeringly white. "TONY? TONY STARK!"

They all spun on their heels, facing a very downtrodden Tony Stark who had crawled about fifteen feet away to the wall, leaving a large red smear on the pale marble floor.

He raised a pale and shaky hand. "Present." Tony's voice was frail in its banter. He was sitting, much like he had been when Hawkeye had first seen him this morning. But currently, he was leaning against the wall because he had to - not out of comfort. His knee wasn't up to his chest for casual relaxation at it had been this morning - now he had brought his knee up because sitting in a fetal position didn't tear at the gaping hole in his side.

"Stark, Holy shit." A huge lump welled up in Barton's throat as he took in the sight of his friend. "You…you took a bullet for me…" Clint half-crawled-half-ran across the floor, Steve and Nat hot on his heels.

"I did, didn't I...? Well, look at that…. I guess I'm not… just a useless little hostage after a-"

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" Barton was shouting, running his hands through his hair. He was ripping off his jacket, pressing it roughly to Tony's side. The bullet hole was bleeding furiously, the entrance wound just to the upper left of Tony's stomach. The round had lodged itself between his ribs, and had probably pierced his diaphragm – which would explain why Tony's breathing sounded so bad.

"What was I thinking?" Tony gasped out, amused. "I was thi-" He let out a wet cough, a hacking sound that made Steve cringe and Nat purse her mouth. Blood collected slightly on the corner of Stark's lips. This was not good - not good at all. Barton's hands were shaking, he pressed tighter to the wound. Tony let out a groan at the pressure, but continued on. "I was thinking that I should crawl over here….to make sure…that I didn't get your jacket stained too badly….but now you've gone….and gotten in covered in blood on purpose….so all was for naught…" Tony's eyes were half lidded, and the smile that he was trying to put on his face was wane and grim, despite his best efforts.

"Don't worry Stark, it's going to be fine. I promise. You hear me, it's going to be fine, paramedics are on their way, remember?" Steve was helping Barton now, placing his own hands over the wound, allowing Barton to work to get Tony lying flat on his back.

The Italian let out a hiss of discomfort at being moved, but his face betrayed the extent of his pain. It had dropped two shades of color – the crimson specks at his lips stood out like ink on white paper. His skin was cold and a light sheen of sweat draped his face. Tony started to shiver.

"Tash, go find out where those damn medics are!" Steve bellowed. Romanoff wasted no time, and was down on the street in seconds.

Steve ran a hand through Tony's hair. His stomach knotted as Tony leaned weakly into the warmth of his touch. "He's freezing, Clint. Do you have anything to cover him with?" Clint shifted his hands out from underneath Steve, who reapplied pressure immediately, and ran to find the employee lounge on the first floor. There might be blankets or jackets there.

Tony's shivering got worse, and his wound was bleeding more profusely than ever. With one hand, Steve kept pressure on the bullet hole. With the other hand, he effortlessly raised Tony's legs off the ground, trying to get as much blood into Tony's heart and brain as possible. This increased the wound's flow pressure for a while, but Steve was comforted to see a small hint of pink returning to Stark's face.

"Tony, you hear me, you're going to be fine. You're going to get in an ambulance in a minute, and you'll be at your favorite place on earth – the hospital." Tony started to give a chuckle, but it turned into another jarring cough that tormented his wound and sent a large fountain of blood out of his mouth and nose. It coated his chin now; his teeth were stained red. Bile rose in Steve's throat, along with surmounting panic and anger. _Where was that medic unit?_

Like an answer to a prayer, Tash's footsteps sounded behind him in the foyer. He didn't even give her a chance to speak.

"Are they on their way up? Do they have a backboard?"

Barton ran in just as Tash arrived, a thick emergency shock blanket taken from the first aid kit in the employee lounge draped across his arms. He didn't even spare a glance at Nat. He ran to Tony's limp form, wrapping the blanket around him, applying pressure to the wound now from over top the blanket.

"Steve, they aren't coming."

Movement stopped. "What do you mean they aren't coming?" Rogers spat out between gnashing teeth. "Is there a problem? Is there something in the road – in the doorway that I need to move? Because I will do it. Is there a car crash that is preventing them from getting here? Cuz I will push the damn cars out of the way."

"No, Cap, the police aren't letting the first responders in until the building has been cleared of anymore threats."

Steve gestured wildly to the three dead men at the other end of the room. "WE CLEARED THE THREATS!"

"Cap, I TRIED! They won't let them up!"

Steve shot a glance down at Tony.

His eyes were closed.

 _When did his eyes close?_

"Tony?" Steve patted his face. "Tony? Tony open your eyes, answer me."

Nothing, just ragged breathing coming slower and slower.

"Tony, DAMMIT!" it was Clint now who slapped the engineer roughly on the face. "TONY WAKE UP! TONY WAKE-" Barton started to panic, tears in his eyes, and his own sobs choked off his word. His hands pressed down even harder on his jacket, which had soaked through ages ago.

Nat shot a look at Steve. "He's out of time."

Steve felt a lump growing in his throat. "I know, so we need to give him more."

Steve Rogers threw his hands underneath Tony's limp body and picked him up as if he weighed nothing more than a paperweight. The Captain moved as quickly and gently as he could, running Tony across the room, through the bank's foyer, out the glass doors, down the stone steps, and across the sidewalk. Steve was hollering orders the moment he stepped onto the street and broke through the Police perimeter. Officers were bombarding him, asking questions and demanding answers, but Steve plowed through them, knocking several down in the process. He didn't have time for their crap.

He located the nearest ambulance, sitting idle but prepared. Tony was loaded in, strapped and masked, in less than a minute. One look at Steve - blood stains running down his uniform, shield on back, and anguish in his eyes - and the paramedics had no problem letting Captain America, Black Widow, and Hawkeye all ride in the back of the ambulance with their teammate.

But Steve, Tash, and Clint were riding in the back with one of their dearest friends.

* * *

Balloons. There were so many balloons.

Tony had just mustered up enough strength to open his eyes, and the first thing he has to look at in this godforsaken place is balloons.

He hated balloons.

Not in a globophobia kind of way – they didn't scare him. It was just such a weird concept that almost made him so uncomfortable.

 _"Here,"_ a balloon says. _"Have a decorative sack of my air!_ "

It was just creepy.

The room was relatively dark, He was thankful for that. His head was pounding. Well, so was his side of course; but that had been so well wrapped, he could hardly move it. He was thankful for the immobility. Any more pain than this would be rather unpleasant.

Tony had remembered everything after a few moments of being awake.

He remembered the bank, the sexy teller that had flirted with him…then there was a smoke bomb, gunshots, a briefcase…and trying to get to Clint in time. Tony closed his eyes in reverence. He was so glad he had gotten to Clint in time.

Sure, Barton would be pissed at him for a while. He never did respond well to having people do terribly decent things for him. But secretly, Barton would spend every day of every week repaying Tony for this. Oh, they would still tease each other – they would still prank. But Barton would have his back everywhere. He would clean things, cook things, leave little gifts, do laundry. _He was a rather domesticated bird_ , Tony mused.

Tony opened his eyes back up and let them drift around the room, past the wall of balloons on the bedside table. The foot of his bed was free of archers and super spies – that was strange. Usually when he woke up in situations like this, Clint was either perched, or Tash was curled up around his feet.

A year ago, Tony would have been relieved to have been left alone. Now...

 _Well, I'm sure they had more important things to do anyway. Saving the world and all that._

Tony tried to nestle back into his pillows, but he just couldn't get comfortable. His pain was starting to surface, and he knew soon that he would need morphine desperately, so he may as well ask for it now. His hand flailed out blindly to the control panel on his bed, and his fingers shakily pressed the call button.

The light on the call button flashed a bright red, signaling that a nurse was on her way. The red light would show up at any nurse's station with the corresponding room number so that they could see who was calling for help.

Apparently, it wasn't just the nurses who had been watching the button.

Tony heard them before they even got into his hallway.

"-WE STEP OUT FOR FIVE MINUTES TO GET COFFEE, AND YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS? WHAT IF SOMETHING IS WRONG, WHAT IF HE'S IN PAIN?"

"IT WASN'T MY IDEA, IT WAS YOURS! NOW HE'S GONNA WAKE UP ALL ALONE AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAU–"

"DON'T EVEN GIVE ME THAT, BARTON, YOU WERE FALLING ASLEEP WHERE YOU STOOD. YOU NEEDED THE COFFEE."

"BOYS, STOP ARGUING."

"SCREW YOU, CAP."

"I DON'T EVEN NEED COFFEE, CLINT. CAFFEINE DOESN'T EVEN WORK ON ME."

"CONGRATULATIONS, STEVE DO YOU WANT A STICKER?"

"BOYS!"

The footsteps were approaching at double time, half a run, half a respectful canter through hospital corridors. They had just turned the corner and were now getting aggravatingly loud. Tony couldn't help but chuckle lightly, despite it tearing at his stitches. They hadn't left him – of course they hadn't. They were right there, bickering like old women.

The door was flung open - Nat, Clint, and Steve had beat the nurses there. Steve reached around with his long arm and threw the lights up, blinding Tony in the process.

"Jesus, Cap, take it easy on my corneas. They get enough damage everyday staring at your ugly face."

The three teammates at the door just gaped.

"You – you scared the hell out of us, Tony." Steve moved with the stiffness of an old, wise man. He looked exhausted and aged. For the first time, Tony saw the ninety year old that was Steve Rogers. He pulled a chair over to Tony's bedside and sat down in it with a grimace and a rueful laugh. He put his head down on Tony's arm.

"Please, Tony. Please don't do that again. My heart can't take it."

Tony scoffed lazily. "Your heart is engineered to last for over one hundred years without even lapsing by one percent."

"Yah well," Steve brought his face up to look into Tony's wickedly gleeful eyes. "You and your idiocy are the exception."

Tash patted Tony's foot, amusement and content visible in her face. "Your idiocy is an exception to a lot of things, my friend."

Tony just gave another wry chuckle and shot a glance to Clint, who stood just behind Tash at the foot of the bed. "How's your face, slugger?"

Barton looked almost…shy, and responded with a small affirmative and a shrug. That wasn't reassuring.

Tony shot a look at his other two teammates. "hey, guys, I heard you yelling about coffee on your way here does someone want to grab me some?"

Steve shot a glance from Tony to Clint, then back to Tony. "Yah, uh, c'mon Agent Romanoff. Let's go see what we can find Tony in the cafeteria." Nat didn't even fight it. She was the first to understand.

Funnily enough, it was as the two were leaving that they ran into the nurse who answered the button. She was breathing heavily, having jogged all the way here after the Avengers took off at a sprint. In her defense, it was a really long distance from the nurse's station – Tony could recall sneaking to that station quite a few times in his life. They were some very cute ones at this hospital if he remembered correctly…

The nurse was a pleasant enough woman. Steve and Tash stayed while she upped Tony's morphine, plumped his pillows, gave him some ice chips. All in all, he felt much better after she had done her work. He shot a satisfied nod to his two friends in the doorway, and they left seamlessly, smiling a quick goodbye.

It was just him and Clint, now.

"What's wrong, Barton." The archer wouldn't even look at him.

"Barton, you need to talk to me, because I spend most of my life telling you to shut up, but now that you have shut up, I really can't stand it." Tony locked eyes with the man and wouldn't let go. His voice dropped, not in tone, but in severity. It was one of the most genuine tones Tony could muster.

"Talk to me, Clint."

The archer's walls came down. His eyes melted, his face crumpled, his shoulders sagged, and his breath came out in a shaky puff of ragged air. His legs were shaking so bad that he could hardly manage to grapple himself to the side of the bed, but when he did, he sat down in the seat Steve had vacated, he put his head down on Tony's side, and he shook.

Clint Barton shook. They weren't wracking sobs - He cried softly, but his whole body shivered. His forehead was sweaty and his nose was dripping and his muscles were sore from shaking, but he kept on going. Tony could only muster up enough strength to rub the top of his head gently – some small circles on his upper back.

"Clint," even Tony's voice was cracking a little bit. "Clint, it wasn't your fault. Never think that it as your fault. And I'm ok! See? Nothing bad happened in the end. We got the bad guys, and we are all ok."

Clint's head shot up. "You're not ok! Stop saying that! It _was_ my fault, Tony! I wasn't paying attention! I had the whole thing mapped out Tony. The whole fuckin plan – and I forgot that there were more – I…I just….I don't know how I forgot, I just wasn't thinking – and my face hurt and we were all screwing with you and I just wasn't thinking and I am so sorry please, Tony, please forgive me, I am so sor-"

Tony stopped Barton, cupping his face in such an intimate way that the other man was shocked into silenced.

"Clint, there is nothing to forgive. I know you would do the same for me, and that is all the thanks I will ever need." Tony paused. "Also, let's not tell anyone about this moment right now because they already think we're banging each other."

Clint let out a soggy laugh between his tears, and the mood immediately lightened. The two men looked at each other in mild embarrassment and understanding; they laughed again. Barton's body began to even out. His shoulders came back up, his shaking died down. He nuzzled Tony's arm on the bed and just breathed deep.

"You're my best bud, you now that, right?" Barton's voice was almost too quiet to hear.

"Yah, I know. And may I say you made a damn good choice with that, too."

"Shut up, you narcissistic asshole."

"That's me."

Silence.

"I'm really glad you're alive."

"Yah, me too. What would this team do without me?"

"Function a lot smoother."

"But that would be absolutely boring, wouldn't it?"

"Intolerably so. I would quit. By some land, own a farm, who the hell knows."

Stark laughed. "Somehow, I can picture you on a farm. You'd rock a flannel."

* * *

Nat and Steve got back to Tony's room and smiled contentedly at the sight before them. Clint was fast asleep, his drool on Tony's quilt. Tony was drugged out, but a peaceful smile on his face as he lay sunken into big fluffy pillows. Tony was good. Clint and Tony were good.

The team was good.

* * *

 **REVIEW!**

 **next chapter will by H for Hypnosis, and it will be a domestic tony, and it will pretty much be a while chapter of them taking care of a very upset and miserable Tony, cuz i know thats what you all wanted.**

 **i had a lot of fun with this one, but im sorry its a day late. im super stressed out. engineering, as i said. its rough to find three or four hours to sit down and do this. BUT I DO IT BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL!**


	10. H for Hypnosis Part 1

**H for Hypnosis**

* * *

 **Guys I am so, so sorry I didn't update the last two weeks, I was travelling all weekend and struggling to get my work done for class and study for my Calculus midterm. I swear I'm trying my hardest, just bear with me!**

 **I cannot thank you all enough for all the reviews. Seriously, they make my days so much brighter, please don't stop. Sometimes, when I'm stressed, I read through them and they remind me that everything is going to be ok and I can do this!**

 **I love you all, thank you to whoever suggested H for Hypnosis, it's gonna be a fun one…Two parts, because you all deserve it. LOTS OF WHUMP FOR EVERYONE! YAY!**

 **It's a long weekend so I'm going to write some chapters in advance.**

* * *

Tony swooped left and right, flying high and dipping low, blasters hitting hard and true at the enemy lines.

"Widow! Take flank!" Steve's orders were coming in steadily and confidently, there was no panic in his voice – only the appropriate amount of urgency for a mission such as this.

Without skipping a beat, the Russian stepped wide and fell back, her pistols firing from her expert hands. She circled around to cover Steve's back, enemies falling like dominos at her precisely calculated discharges. Barton's arrows were felling men at the same alarming rate, each feather tipped weapon whizzing past his teammates within inches of their faces, but never once so much as grazing them.

The proximity to Barton's shots used to make Steve flinch, but now it didn't faze him at all. Rogers didn't respond with as much as a blink when an arrow passed in front of his nose to kill the attacker on his left.

Tony, amidst his own munitions, watched his teammates on the ground. He loved this sort of operation – when the team was engaged in full combat without missing a single step. They truly were a well-oiled machine, something which appealed to Stark's engineering nature. His lips quirked up at the thought.

 _Pew_! His blasters knocked two men off the parapets of the compound and rained deadly rubble down on several more below. Within no time, the yard was completely clear of hostiles.

Tony landed with a muffled _thunk_ on the cold and frozen ground. His faceplate came up to assess, with his own eyes, the state of his healthy, albeit winded, teammates. The cold October breeze stung at his nose, and the Russian trees swung noisily and ominously around the clearing, their dim colors and ancient gnarls only adding to the creep factor. A shiver ran down Tony's spine, and it wasn't from the cold.

Steve and Nat approached Stark, leaving Barton to climb down from his perch and scavenge for arrows. Steve was stretching his taut muscles and wiping the pine needles from his hair. Nat's words came out in puffs of white, her sheen of sweat and her heavy breathing counteracting the frosty morning air.

"Heat scanner?" Nat was always to the point, never wasting her time with more words than she had to.

Tony shook his head. "Nothing left outside or in the first three levels of the compound. But-" He threw up a projection from a gadget in his left gauntlet. Little dots of red, no more than 7, were clustered together in an internal level of the compound – a model of the building had been perfectly constructed by the holograph and showed the complete internal workings of the building they were storming.

"As you can see," Stark continued. "There appear to be six hostiles left, if we assume the seventh is the target."

Steve contemplated for a moment. "Understood. Thank you, Iron Man." He turned to readjust a strap on his shield. "We'll enter the compound in exactly ninety seconds. Synchronize your watches." Everyone paused to do so, even though they had done it at the start of the mission as well.

Steve continued. "From there, you all know your duties. Do them well and do them quickly…and if you do, maybe we'll all make it home in time for taco night at Coulson's." Rogers gave a mischievous smile. Barton laughed from behind the group, and even Natasha let her eyes go teasing for a small moment before reassuming her steely gaze. It was a long running joke amidst Coulson's closest associates that Tuesday night was Taco Night as his house and they were all invited weekly – it wasn't real thing of course, just some sort of inside joke…and damn if any one of them could actually remember how it had started.

Tony cast a look at Natasha then, and watched her as she turned slightly and cast a long look into the forest.

 _It must be strange for her to be back in Russia._ Tony couldn't help ponder over the mystery that was Agent Romanoff. They all read her file, they all knew the generalization of her backstory – but none of them, not even Barton, would ever know all of it.

For a second, Tony thought he saw an emotion flicker across the Russian's stoic features – sadness, perhaps. Longing. But too soon, Steve announced that they had sixty seconds, and her discipline kicked in, returning her blank expression to its usual place.

Tony sighed quietly and ordered JARVIS to run a suit diagnostics. The faceplate closed, and all systems were rebooted and stretched and prepared for round two. Motor Controllers whizzed, potentiometers reset, servos buzzed and rotated, and encoders clicked. It was music to his ears.

The team assumed their positions, forming their two groups of two for the next stage of the incursion. Barton and Steve would take left, Romanoff and Stark would take right. They all clenched and unclenched their fists, waiting for the order.

Steve held up his hand, his eyes fixed in the countdown. "5…4…3…2…" He swung his hand down and, like a checkered flag releasing cars at Daytona, the Avengers sprinted forward with stride and purpose.

Tony blasted the lock on the door only feet ahead of them, and they ran through a thick spray of dust and dirt without ever breaking pace. Corridors stemmed from their hallway, leading to depths unknown and unimportant. They knew their route, and they knew their job.

Soon, the hallway reached the back end of the compound and branched off to both sides. Without so much as a pause, just a grunt of mutual understanding from everyone, the two pods split. Barton and Steve went left, reeling around their corner, with his shield up and poised for protection in front of Barton, who had his weapons loaded and primed.

Tony rounded their right-hand corner first, using a bare minimum of thruster power keeping him in flight, off the ground to avoid clanking his metal boots on the concrete floor – and frankly, to be able to stay ahead of Natasha. Damn she was fast.

They encountered no hostiles on the ground floor, and per strategy, the red head and the billionaire made their way to the bottom levels of the compound, stopping only to listen for running footsteps of the armed guards.

Tony and Nat beat their teammates to the basement by a substantial lead (as they find out later, Barton had not memorized the map and led Steve down the wrong hallway). They descended the steps to the lowest level, creeping silently down a dismal short hallway towards an ajar cast iron door. Assuming positions on either side of the door, they shared a look, silently nodding to an imaginary beat. On three, they burst through the entrance and began firing, taking out the last remaining hostiles. Bullets whizzed in their direction, but Tony made sure to keep Natasha protected behind him at all times. She hung off him, swinging from his back, firing above his shoulder, running and leaping around the room like an acrobat. It was moments such as these that Tony remembered their assassin was a Russian prima ballerina.

She killed people with such a painful amount of beauty and grace.

The room was quiet, the last Russian mercenary lay twitching on the floor. Only the click of Nat's weapon chambers and her steady breathing could be heard above the absolute silence. Tony brushed some dirt off himself, scratching absentmindedly at a miniscule dent that a .22 had left in his chest plate,

"You good?" Her voice was even.

"Yah."

…

"Good."

Tony smiled underneath his faceplate. _Yah, love you too, Tash._

But very quickly, both of their attentions were drawn to what lay in the center of the room.

The package: what they had been sent to either deliver back to SHIELD or kill on spot – there was no in between.

It was a crate – solid metal, small air holes in the sides – about six feet tall and 3 feet wide. There was no sound coming from the crate at all, but they knew that whoever, or whatever, was in this was alive – it had showed up on the heat scanner.

The two avengers shared a look before nodding to one another. In a swift pull, Iron Man pried the crate open, ripping the door off its hinges. What they saw inside shocked them both.

Tony had been expecting a villain - an alien maybe. A great, foul creature that tortured its victims and feasted on human flesh – or maybe some huge weapons trader who carved people up as a message to his other clients about paying their debts. He had been expecting something…evil.

He had not been expecting some Old Russian grandmother.

If Stark hadn't been so wary and confused, he may have laughed at the ridiculousness of the sight before him. The old woman was wrinkled and helpless. She had arms as skinny as sticks and enough lines and wrinkles to rival the Grand Canyon. Her hair was cotton white and her lips were set in an angry Russian pout that reminded him slightly of Tash – not that he would ever say that to her face, of course, at fear of death.

The most striking part of the woman, however, was that she was wearing a blindfold.

But Tash and Tony quickly noticed that this wasn't just a regular blindfold- no measly strip of fabric. This was goddamn heavy duty; her eyes were covered by stainless steel framed goggles, blacked out lenses, rubber sealed to her face. The two side straps were locked in place behind her head with a chain padlock. And as if to ensure that she could never free her vision, her old rheumy hands and legs were tied with rope and duct tape.

Tony's human side was impelled to free her, but his avenger side knew that she had been tied like his for a reason.

It was Tash who spoke first. "What do we do? Is she a threat or a friendly?"

"Tash," Tony shifted uncomfortably. "You're the one who speaks Russian – you ask her."

Tash nodded. "привет мэм?" _Hello Ma'am?_ And Tash then let out a slew of gentle Russian, speaking warily and approaching the old captive woman with due caution. Tony heard his name and 'Tasha's being thrown in as an introduction.

Tony wasn't even sure the woman was alive never mind paying attention until her thin lips parted, and responded shakily to Tash's words. Her own Russian was heavy and interrupted by scraggly breaths.

The redhead listened, and responded again, her voice more sure this time and her walls seeming to come down.

"Tash, what is she saying?" Tony made a move towards the two women, eyes never leaving Tash's face to search for signs of any potential danger they may be in based on the woman's words.

"Her name is Ana. She say that she was taken from her village several months ago, brutally attacked in the night and dragged from her house." She listened as the woman continued. "She also says that the men we killed work for a crazed man, a man with power and weapons but with a sick head. He believed that she was a witch, and he called her a _devil worshipper._ He wanted to burn her at the stake." At this point in the translation, the old woman chin started to quiver, and behind the tight vision bindings, her eyes filled with misty tears. "He changed his mind, however. He demanded that she be kept alive and used as a weapon against his enemies. But the blindfolded her so that she could not bewitch him with her demon powers." Romanoff's voice rang with a tint of bitterness.

"Who was this man? Who were his enemies?" Tony interrupted.

Tash halted, and asked the woman the question. She replied softly, but with less of a quiver to her voice.

"She says that he was a drug man, Muskovitch – he recruited local young men, giving them weapons, turning them into criminals at threat of their family's lives. He fought against other cartels. That's all she knows; they almost never spoke to her of their plans." Tash paused as the woman added something else. "And they…they only let her out of her crate once a day."

Tony closed his eyes and felt sick. This poor woman. "Tash…Tash I don't understand. This can't be the package that Fury wanted us to pick up. He must have heard a Russian cartel had a human weapon and he thought it had a potential to be a superhuman or a potential Avenger recruit. Not…" He cast a pitying gaze down at the old woman – she was frail and shaking and filthy and starving. "Not this, Tash. Not this."

"Stark, I hate to admit it, but I have to agree with you."

"Can we let her out of those damn restraints now, please?"

Tash gave a hesitant nod, and got stepped up into the crate while Tony carefully sintered the back off of the steel siding, giving himself access to the padlock at the back of Ana's head. The whole while, Tash calmed the spooked woman, telling her that she was being released, and they were going to take care of her and return her to her home. The woman started whimpering and nodding her head, thanking them quietly in Russian. Tash gave her a strong hand to hold as Tony split her ropes and gently snipped the chains.

The woman's hands were freed, followed by her ankles and her upper body. Tash and Tony stepped back, allowing her to stretch her fingers and rub her wrists. She reached up and began pulling weakly at the pinching metal goggles, freeing her face and her eyes. Ana blinked painfully in the dim light of the basement, taking in the faces of her saviors and the bodies of her captives on the floor.

Much to Tony's surprise, the older woman stuttered out a heavily accented reply in English. "T-Thank you." She said. Tony gave her that signature Stark smile and nodded. Natasha helped her out of the chair, and Tony checked the heat sensors to find Barton and Steve. They should have been here five minutes ago to help them take out the hostiles. It was a good thing everything had gone so smoothly.

"Speak of the devil," Stark mumbled when he heard the heavy patter of boot steps and spandex approaching the top of the stairs. The two men came thundering down, completely out of breath, with Barton spewing apologies and defenses.

"I said I was sorry, didn't I? Everything on that damn map looked the same."

"All you had to do was remember the one hallway, Clint! One damn hallway! ONE!"

"YOU DON'T NEED TO SHOUT STEVE I'M NOT DEAF!"

They all paused.

"OK, WELL, I AM DEAF," Barton puffed out his chest. "BUT THAT IS NO REASON TO SHOUT AT ME!"

The bickering grew louder and louder until the first pod of Avengers burst into the room, guns drawn, to find everything under control and Natasha holding up an old grandmother.

Definitely not what they were expecting.

"Agent Romanoff, report." Steve holstered his weapon and dropped his shield, eyeing the civilian with wariness.

"This is… the package." And from there, Nat and Tony explained all that Ana had told them.

"So, what you're saying is," Barton was sitting cross legged on the floor, his back against the wall, and his arms splayed causally. "That this Muskovitch guy was a superstitious little shit and kidnapped and blinded an old woman because he thought she was a witch that could strengthen his Russian drug cartel in the middle of nowhere?"

Tony nodded. "Yah, that's pretty much the whole thing."

Barton cursed under his breath. "Dammit, Fury. He sends us out to the coldest fuckin' country on earth to save someone's Nanna from being kidnapped by a psychotic Russian drug lord." He wiped dust off his cargo pants. "Next time, Nicholas, dear, do your damn homework so we know what we're getting into."

Steve scoffed. "Barton, you are not one to talk about doing homework."

"Hey - listen here, Spangles," and the two teammates resumed their bickering.

"Children, children," Tony stepped between them. "No fighting, you'll upset Mother." Sure enough, Nat was sending them all steely glares of disapproval. She set Ana down on a nearby stool and went to stand with her teammates.

"Help me with the old woman," Tash directed. "We will get her to safety, return her to her village, and then go right back to SHIELD for the debriefing of our lives." They all begrudgingly nodded.

But then the atmosphere in the room completely changed.

Steve, with his heightened senses, felt the shift. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his instincts were telling him to run. "Romanoff-" he began, but she placed a hand on his arm. She felt it, too.

They all turned to look to the door, thinking maybe there was someone outside – but there was no one.

That's when the metal door slammed shut by itself and locked, immovably, in place.

Steve ran to open it, the rest of the team on high alert, gazing around in fighting stance. His muscles bulged, strained, and protested, but the door would not open.

"Tony!" he panted, "Can you blast the door?"

The engineer quickly assessed the frame. "Cap, this ceiling wouldn't hold it if my blasters rocked the foundation. This place was built in World War One." Sure enough, the concrete on the ceiling was chipping off, deformed, and full of splinters and cracks. "Four floors of concrete would fall on our heads. We would all be buried."

Suddenly, the lights began to flicker on and off. The wind outside picked up speed, and they could hear it wrapping and twisting its way around the compound's exterior walls– impressive considering they were almost thirty feet underground.

"What the hell is going on here?!" Barton was on his feet, looking quite alarmed. Steve was still trying the door, and Tony was desperately searching for another way out, expecting at any moment for an armed unit to march into the basement and open fire.

Natasha was the only one who thought to look behind them.

"Боже мой," she whispered. _My God._ The other Avengers spun around to follow her gaze.

The old woman was not sitting where they had delicately placed her - In fact, she looked quite less frail than she had a minute ago. She stood with a wide stance, a malicious grin on her gnarled face. Her hands were poised and her back was straight. A low and icy chuckle was resonating on her lips, and her eyes… her eyes…

They were like gentian crystals, purple to the deepest degree of color. They wisped and glowed, light and dark swirling tendrils of power emanating from them like steam from cauldrons. Her hands seemed to catch the trails of falling color, wrapping and warping around her fingers – power collecting in her palms.

She spoke loudly, in accented but clear English, her voice full of strength and cruelty – this was not the same woman they had found in the crate.

"Thank you for your help, children." She smiled wickedly. "But I will not be needing you any longer."

Tony's eyes went wide.

 _Holy shit, she's actually a witch._

Without any more of a warning, she attacked.

Purple rays shot from her arms, firing across the room. The first one missed Steve's head by a fraction of an inch, and only because Barton managed to pull him down in time – it whizzed by, blasting a smoking hole into the concrete wall. They hardly had a moment to recover and get back onto their feet before the next shots were sent spiraling towards them. Tash ran at the woman, closing the forty feet between them in record time, dodging the majority of her shots until a bolt of purple clipped Nat on the side of her face. The strike whipped Nat's head, pain exploding at her temple, and the Russian went reeling into darkness.

"TASH!" Barton screamed amidst the deafening noise of shots and screaming purple fire.

The archer sprinted along the wall, covered by Steve's rain of bullets and Tony drawing the attention of the woman with taunts. Clint crawled to where Natasha lay, completely unconscious, a steady stream of blood pouring from her head wound.

"Tash? Tash?" Barton wiped the hair tenderly from her face, cradling her limp form in his strong arms. He gave himself a moment to simply hold her, stilling the tide of fear in his heart. He pressed a small kiss to the top of her head, and then pulled away. He gave her a quick once over, checking her pupils and her pulse. He wasn't pleased by what he found, but he knew she wasn't in any immediate danger.

But he needed her to be safe.

"CLINT, UPDATE?" Steve bellowed amidst the firefight.

"SHE'S STABLE, BUT I NEED TO GET HERE OUT OF HERE, STEVE."

Steve rolled across the floor and came up behind Tony, taking cover behind the suit. Tony understood immediately and widened his stance, reflecting shots off his chest plate and firing his repulsions back at the witch. They had very little affect – her defenses were like a force field, absorbing and deflecting shots with ease. Her own blows, however, seemed to be increasing in strength and ferocity.

The Avengers needed a plan and fast.

Steve, behind Tony, tried the door once more, but it was locked tight. The witch was holding it shut, effectively trapping them like cattle at a slaughterhouse.

The thought made a twinge of fear flutter in Stark's throat. He needed to get his team to safety.

Tony's heart sank. He knew what he had to do. He had known it from the moment the door had swung shut behind them. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was the only way to get everyone out.

"Cap! I have a plan!"

"Be my guest, Stark!" Steve groaned, muscles still tensing against the door.

"I'm going to blast the door down, and the moment I do, you need to lead Barton and Romanoff up those steps as fast you can, understand? I'll cover you down here. You need to go quickly – don't look back." The old woman's blows were causing Tony real pain now as the suit stopped being able to absorb the full shock. She was getting way too strong. Stark was grunting with each shot, but he kept firing right back.

Steve's face was horrified. "But Tony, you said-"

"I KNOW WHAT I SAID, CAP, BUT LISTEN TO WHAT I AM SAYING NOW." Tony cried out in agony and dropped to one knee as a purple strike hit his torso, pain flaring up and down his side. He climbed back up to his feet immediately, ignoring Steve's protests, focusing instead on the malevolent smile from the evil old bitch trying to kill his family.

"STEVE, I'M GOING TO DO IT EITHER WAY SO YOU BETTER WELL JUST BE READY."

The Captain hesitated for one second before accepting defeat. "DAMN YOU, STARK!" but the fear and concern was evident in his voice.

"BARTON!" Steve called to the archer and sent him a series of military hand signals. Barton's eyes grew wide and he flashed his gaze to Tony before settling back on his leader and nodding. He scooped up Natasha, carrying her in his arms bridal style, shielding her with his back as he ran along the wall to rejoin his teammates. His movement caught the witch's attention, and she sent her purple tendrils in his direction. Tony sidestepped them and caught the blows full on, covering his two friends with his body. He had to grind his teeth to stop from screaming. Tears threatened at his eyes – his whole body felt like it was on fire. But still, her munitions came – relentless, unyielding and not weakening by any measure.

Barton, still cradling Tash, hunched against the wall ten feet from the cast iron door. Steve put himself between the exit and Barton, shield up and ready for the blast.

"WE'RE READY, STARK!" Rogers cried over the blasts.

Tony nodded largely, and with a bellow, he opened up everything he had on the repulsors and launched a continuous and terribly powerful stream of fire at the witch on the other end of the room. She gave a cry as well, and the two were locked in a stream of energy, black and purple mixing with the bright white of the arc reactor.

Tony held it for five seconds, a yell escaping his throat at the effort – and then he turned abruptly, breaking the stream, and fired through the door, blasting it off its hinges and sending a plume of rubble into the air. The ceiling immediately began to shake as the wall crumbled, large chunks of stone falling and shattering on the ground. The witch let out curses in Russian, scrambling away from the debris.

"GO!" Tony cried. He watched, behind the spots in his vision, as Barton sprinted up the stairs, Nat in arms, followed closely by Steve.

The witch screamed in fury, and while Tony was turned, her line of fire erupted at his back, landing right into his shoulder blades, and sending him flying into the adjacent wall. The pain was blinding, and a cry ripped its way up Tony's throat before he could stifle it.

The captain stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing Tony's screams.

"NO!" Steve bellowed, preparing to charge back into battle to save his friend.

But Tony couldn't let him.

The witch was turning to attack Steve, now, and the ceiling was all but caving in. The noise was thunderous, and the whole room was shaking. Steve stood safely in the doorway – for now, but the moment he crossed the threshold, he would be in too much danger.

Tony raised his right hand at Steve – Rogers thought it was just a signal to stop (one he was going to ignore, of course) until the familiar white glow and the high pitched hum of the blaster shone brightly in Stark's palm. Steve's mouth fell open in betrayal, but he reacted out of instinct, raising his shield, as Tony fired a powerful shot that struck Captain America square in his chest. The impact to the shield sent him flying backwards into the hallway and halfway up the staircase, where Barton grabbed him by his suit and dragged the stunned captain to safety.

If Tony weren't so preoccupied, he would have laughed out loud at the indignant look on Steve's face at literally being shot out of a room against his will. But Tony was quite busy being reckless and self-sacrificing…per usual, as Pepper would say.

Tony scrambled shakily to his feet, wrenched off his faceplate, and shot beam after beam at the witch as she screamed and flailed at the falling rubble around her. Some of it bounced off her shields, but she was too distracted on all sides now to keep her magic going as strong as it had been.

Tony dodged right, then left, and before he knew it, he was right next to the witch. They both held their hands up to one another, an arms distance away, as the world caved in around them, prepared to bury their bodies and crush them to death…and Tony Stark, a wry grin on his face, and his eyes steeled in fury, spat at the woman's face as she gazed in panic at the ceiling one last time.

"I'll see you in hell." And Tony rapidly lifted his arm from its position and fired a last shot directly into the ceiling.

All the remaining structural integrity gave way, and the ceiling came down around them. Slabs as wide as Volkswagens shattered down, burying the two enemies, crunching bones and denting metal, slicing and scraping. Both quickly forgot their fight and fell to the ground, crying out and feeling their bodies being crushed.

Tony was curled in a ball, his suit deflecting what it could, when he felt the physical attacks of the old lady, her balled up fists beating at his suit for what he had done. Suddenly, purple light wrapped around his faceplate, ripping it off and exposing his gaze to hers.

Her face was bloodied and dusty, her lower body was being crushed by the concrete slabs, and rebar protruded grotesquely from her ribcage, but she had enough life left in her dying form to exact her revenge.

"You…will be…my justice, _Tony Stark_." She spat his name, blood dribbling from her mouth. "You will lose…all that I have…and more…" Tony felt a strange power flow from her hand into his skin, and he cried out but found himself unable to move. His brown irises swiveled in fear, darting around his skull, as he felt the strange electricity crawl up his face into his eyes. His vision took on a purple hue, and he felt his mind retreat; his body was not his own.

"You…you will not rest…until…everyone you love…is dead…" She sneered. "As dead as me…." And with a last wracking breath and a bloody spewing cackle, the witch's impaled torso slipped to the floor, unmoving, as the last concrete from the ceiling fell down around them.

Tony watched the slab and rebar heading for his face. His body prepared itself for impact, and when it struck, the world just went black.

* * *

 **PART 2 WILL BE UPDATED TOMORROW AS A SPECIAL TREAT!**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	11. H for Hypnosis Part 2

**H for Hypnosis Part 2**

* * *

 _ **Previously:**_

" **You…will be…my justice, Tony Stark." She spat his name, blood dribbling from her mouth. "You will lose…all that I have…and more…" Tony felt a strange power flow from her hand into his skin, and he cried out but found himself unable to move. He swiveled in fear, panic darting around his skull, as he felt the strange electricity crawl up his face into his eyes. His vision took on a purple hue, and he felt his mind retreat; his body was not his own.**

" **You…will not rest…until…everyone you love…is dead…" She sneered. "As dead as me…." And with a last wracking breath and a bloody spewing cackle, the witch's impaled torso slipped to the floor, unmoving, as the last concrete from the ceiling fell down around them.**

 **Tony watched the slab and rebar heading for his face. His body prepared itself for impact. When it struck, the world just went black.**

* * *

Clint Barton and Steve Rogers had experienced a lot of pain in their lifetimes – a lot of loss, a lot of agony, and a lot of fear.

But watching a building fall in on itself and bury their teammate - their brother - alive was the most heart wrenching by far.

Steve and Clint barely escaped with their lives, dodging falling walls and ceiling slabs the whole way up the stairs and through the hallways. Barton had fallen behind trying to shield Nat's limp body, and Steve had ended up carrying her the rest of the way up so that both men could keep up the sprinting pace. They cleared the doorway just as the rest of the floors of the compound seemed to implode, folding around and crashing to the earth.

And so now they were on the cold grass, one avenger beside them severely wounded and another one….gone. Just gone.

The witch would have been crushed to death, they knew – even her powerful magic could not have stopped a force such as that. But buried alongside her was their best friend.

Barton started to cry almost immediately. Silent tears streaking down his face, he dropped to his knees and never took his eyes off the ruins of the old compound, desperately hoping beyond hope to see a jostle of rock and an ostentatious-pain-in-the-ass flying-metal-suit pop out of the devastation.

But nothing came.

Steve settled Natasha down on the grass, his spirits lifting slightly when she gave a small moan and stirred slightly. She would come around, but she needed medical.

Steve sniffled slightly behind Clint, and crouched to one knee beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders. He shut his eyes, leaning in to quiet Barton's trembling. They touched foreheads like brothers, sitting silent for a moment, both of their chins shaking and lumps in their throats.

"Clint-" Steve swallowed a sob. "Clint, we need to go. Nat needs us."

"I-I know but-" his voice was pained, coming out in wrenching, guttural exhales. High pitched, like a child about to hiccup from crying too hard. "He-He's done this before – and – and he always comes back, Steve! H-He always comes back…and…"

"I know. I know." Steve's eyes misted. "I know." And he clung to Barton in a way that a mother would cling to a child. "But I…I don't think so Clint. Not this time."

The archer fisted his hands into Steve's suit and simply cried, rocking back and forth, on the cold Russian ground surrounded by ancient trees and ineffable grief.

Steve untangled himself from Barton after several minutes, and scooped up Natasha. He was relieved to see that her head wound had slowed its bleeding substantially, but her pupils were still blown and uneven. Most likely a severe concussion, coupled with blood loss – a recipe for one hell of a headache when she came around.

He walked through the tree line to a smaller clearing near the compound where they had landed. Steve loaded her into the quinjet, strapping her down in the back to make sure she wouldn't jostle and injure herself even further. He went back down the ramp and made his way back to the ruins of the compound to collect Barton.

Luckily, the shorter man was like putty in his hands. Clint got up when Steve told him to. He put one foot in front of the other like a good little soldier. He stared straight ahead, his hands hanging dejectedly at his sides - his eyes blank of anything and everything. Steve guided him gently to his pilot seat in the quinjet, asking him if he was ok to fly.

Barton responded with a small nod, blinking a few times as if pulling himself out of it. Steve was too exhausted to fight him about it, and ran him through opening systems operations and pre-flight diagnostics just to make sure Barton really was focused and wasn't going to kill them all.

Clint was coming around, his assassin's discipline kicking in harder than Steve had ever seen it. He would shut himself down for a little while, Rogers knew, but when he came back around, he would need constant human contact and comfort food and warm blankets.

Steve cleared Barton for takeoff, shooting one sad and tearful glance back in the direction of the compound. Barton shut his eyes for a moment, mourning silently. He responded affirmatively, flipping the switchboard above his head, and he brought the quinjet up slowly and gently, mindful of Natasha on the backboard. Steve was draping her with blankets, checking her stability, and settling his hand in her red locks. He was brushing his fingers through her hair absentmindedly for comfort – but even he didn't know if he was trying to comfort Tash or himself.

Steve radioed ahead to SHIELD medical as soon as they were at cruising altitude and let them know to set up a hospital room in Stark Tower for their arrival, and he described Tash's condition over the radio, walking the medics through her vitals and response systems.

Soon, the diagnostics were over, and the cabin settled into a somber silence, both conscious Avengers deep in their own thoughts.

* * *

 _Nobody but the trees were present to watch the rubble shifting on the pile in the black of night. It trembled with force, and the whiz of pneumatics and hydraulics could be heard as shots of white light punched holes in the devastation. A shell, paint scratched and dented, but still alive, rose unsteadily from the ruins. It crawled, hand over hand, knee over knee, up and out of the mess of rebar and concrete._

 _The suit stood on solid ground, shaking with exhaustion and confusion. It gazed around, lights in the faceplate blinking with damaged circuitry._

 _The helmet was removed by steady hands, and Tony's bruised and bloodied face felt the night air wash over his sweaty skin. He took deep breaths, relishing in the clear oxygen that held no trace of dust or rubble._

 _His eyes were alert, darting around the clearing in confusion. What was he doing? Where was he?_

 _Suddenly, a painful bolt of purple flashed over his dark Italian eyes, changing their color to a bright gentian. The flash disappeared as quickly as it had come, but Tony's consciousness was thrown back by the bolt of power into the furthest reaches of his mind. He heard the witch's voice, echoing her last words. His body was alight with purpose – he must follow his orders._

 _With his goal set firmly in his thoughts, with every fiber of his being needing what his master had commanded, Tony Stark refitted his helmet, held out his hands, and thrust off the ground, setting a direct course for Stark Tower._

 _One thought occupied his mind and soul – and one thought alone: Tony Stark must kill the Avengers._

* * *

The quinjet landed on the retractable helipad at Stark Tower, and if either of the two conscious men aboard felt _wrong_ walking into their home without Tony, then they didn't say anything. They didn't have to – they both knew.

Tash had come around about halfway over the Atlantic, albeit groggily. Neither Barton nor Steve had the heart to tell her what had happened to Tony, so when she didn't ask, they said nothing. Besides, it wasn't uncommon for Tony to fly home outside the jet. It was always a good way for him to blow off steam.

The docked in New York and helped an unsteady Tash to her feet. She had woken up enough to refuse to be carried into medical – a good sign that made Steve and Barton force thin smiles onto their faces for her benefit. She noticed immediately that their smiles were strained, but she said nothing. She would wait until they were ready to talk about whatever was bothering them; that much she knew.

Tash was run through a series of neural tests that took ages, and by the end of it she was exhausted. Her MRI and CT showed what they had expected, a severe concussion, but luckily nothing beyond that. She required nine stitched to her temple, a blood transfusion, and a good dose of IV fluids, but she was definitely in the clear. She was asleep as soon as she hit the pillow.

Steve and Barton stood watch more out of habit than anything. They never left their teammates alone when one of them was injured, it was an unspoken code of conduct that had begun when Tony was injured the first time – that goddamn sludge monster that choked the poor bastard to death in the middle Manhattan. Steve chuckled genuinely remembering how Tony had so regally dubbed it "The Walking Booger." The thought of that day made a bittersweet taste fill Steve's mouth. Pain and sadness and rage and grief. Tony was gone and he wasn't coming back – and worst of all? Steve had let it happen. Steve knew – he knew what the outcome of Stark's plan would be, but he knew that it was their only chance to….

Saying the word "survive" almost seemed cruel now, and Steve ran a tired hand through his still damp hair. The post-mission shower, usually a cathartic and relaxing treat, had been nothing but unwanted time to revel in unwanted thoughts and unwanted hypotheticals. A quick glance at the fitfully sleeping Archer across the room confirmed that Barton's post-mission rituals had not been peaceful either.

Tony had always seemed to make it out of harrowing situations – worse ones than even this. So many times in the past few years, they had almost lost him – but each time, his stubborn ass refused to die.

"Why…" Steve whispered aloud to only himself and his sleeping teammates. It was a plea, but he didn't know to whom. He supposed it was to anyone who was listening.

Steve was grateful that they had arrived back in the dead of night. Banner was asleep in his apartments in the building - he had been working on dark matter experiments in Sweden for the past three weeks and was likely sleeping of jet lag. Thor was in traveling the realms to maintain his father's ambassadorial duties and wouldn't be back any time soon. Fury was away with Coulson and Maria Hill and had scheduled their debriefing for the morning. Steve would have to tell all of them the news…not something he was looking forward to.

He was glad he could wait until morning, though. Part of him wanted to rip it off like a band aid, shout from the rooftops that Tony Stark was dead – he wanted the rest of the world to be grieving with him so that he wouldn't feel so alone. But he knew he had a duty, and he would do it nobly and with the amount of dignity Stark's memory deserved.

But tonight, duty could kiss his ass.

Tonight, Steve was going to pity himself and curl up at the foot of Tash's hospital bed and cry quietly into his arms - because at dawn, Tony Stark would not be there to say _good morning_.

* * *

Steve sat quietly but sturdily in the conference room. Fury sat at the head of the table. Barton and Tash sat beside one another to his left. Banner was curled into himself on the right of the table.

Now everyone knew.

Bruce was sniffling loudly and holding his head in his hands, and Tash rose to comfort him. She was much steadier on her feet today, and only needed a little help from Barton to push herself up.

Fury was numb, and didn't say much of anything. He let the team skip the rest of the debriefing, and he had them shuttled back to Stark Tower. He told them he would contact Thor as soon as he was able. Phil Coulson quaveringly left the room to call Ms. Potts, who was out of the country on business for Stark Industries. After all, he and Pepper were good friends, Coulson had justified, his mind still not really processing what had happened. It would be best if she heard it from him.

The four Avengers all walked in through the lobby, nobody saying a word – only the muffled sounds of Bruce's sobs were audible in the elevator ride up. The team simply put their arms around the smaller man and let him bury himself in their warmth.

Nobody felt self-conscious, nobody felt uncomfortable.

They were a family, and a family grieves together.

They were all very busy mourning the loss of Tony Stark – so you can imagine the looks on their faces when the elevator doors opened and bits and pieces of the Iron Man suit were scattered all over the living room and they could hear the dripping water of the shower being shut off in the engineer's room.

They all shared a dumbfounded look before their minds caught up with what they were seeing.

"TONY?!" Barton screamed, tripping over chest plates and gauntlets strewn across the carpet. He sprinted towards the bathroom, not even bothering to worry about the fact that Tony was most likely just getting out of the tub.

Still, nobody bothered to think. They all went sprinting after their resident archer, careening down the hallway, crashing into side tables and slipping on floor mats. They closed the fifty foot distance in record time, taking corners way too fast, but dangerous levels of hope spilling over into the tearful smiles on their faces.

Sure enough, they reached Tony's rooms and burst through the door, finding the Italian engineer standing, shocked expression on his face as the sudden intrusion into his room. He stood, sopping wet, in a fresh pair of boxers and a towel scrubbing at his shaggy brown hair.

"Um, hey?" were the first words out of his mouth, but the team members remained frozen in the doorway.

It was Steve who crossed first, sprinting to the smaller man and lifting him straight off the ground, holding him with as much control as he could – he wanted to squeeze Tony and never let go.

Barton joined the group hug, ripping Tony from Steve's gasp, cradling his face gently and verifying with his own eyes that it was Tony after all. He pulled him in for a teary embrace, Barton's face absolutely radiant with a smile that wouldn't fall.

Each avenger held their friend for ages, whispering exclamations of their relief and their shock, each asking how and why and when and what.

Tony hugged back with what he hoped was a convincing amount of emotion – in truth, the sigh of their faces filled him with hatred and disgust.

These people were flawed and disloyal. They were a waste of air and chemicals. They had just _abandoned him_ in Russia, and he couldn't help but daydream as they talked to him – he pictured wrapping his hands around Tash's pretty neck and squeezing until she had no more life in her. He itched to put three rounds in Barton's chest, and finish Steve off with a bullet between the eyes.

In some deep wells of Stark's consciousness, the real Tony was screaming and banging at his invisible cage, trying desperately to warn his friends of the danger they were in. He was clawing at his own brain, trying to snap himself out of it – but the thick purple haze in his mind silenced his efforts.

On the outside, the team stepped back enough to examine their friend, seeing the bruises and cuts riddling his body from the roof collapse. They all fussed over him like mother hens, and he tried to put on his most genuine expressions of thanks. They called everyone they knew, telling them the good news. (Pepper had started screaming at them all on the phone, as she had just hung up with Phil and had been lying on the floor sobbing. Tash apologized over and over, but the other woman was absolutely livid – relieved, of course, but livid). Fury was silent on his phone call, and then screamed at Stark to "Make up his goddamn mind" before hanging up. Barton still hadn't stopped smiling, and Tony was retelling his tale of waking up in the wreckage with as much earnestness as this shadow of himself could manage.

"It was dark and the air was thick, and I woke up from a humming in my suit. The motors were working overtime, trying to clear rubble from the systems and self-repair. I shifted some slabs around me; I was lucky enough to have been encapsulated in a small hollow of wreckage. I basically blasted my way out from there." Tony put on his best humble face, and he felt malice and pleasure swell within his chest when the team sat with him, comforting him and apologizing and thanking him for saving them.

"Oh Tony" this and "oh, Tony" that. He blinked and nodded and smiled and comforted where he needed to. They had no idea that all of it was fake, and that just the sounds of their voices made him want to run them through with a jagged piece of steel.

Soon, the teammates left him to rest and recover, offering to keep watch with him or to get him food or provide other motherly ministrations. Tony assure them he was fine – just tired. But the moment they left, his faux smile dropped from his face like a brick, and his scowl contorted his face miserably. It had been painful, being so near them all and not being able to fulfil his purpose.

Just then, a purple flash shot across his features, and the scowl deepened even further. There would be no more waiting, the voice in his head commanded.

Tonight, the Avengers would die, one by one.

"JARVIS," Tony called nonchalantly into the dark.

"Hello, Sir; and may I say, welcome back. It is very pleasing to see you alive and well."

"JARVIS, take a break tonight, buddy. Shut down all systems, all protocols, all cameras, and all microphones in the private apartments and labs of Stark Tower. Reboot power at 8 am. Understood?"

The AI sounded confused. "Sir, I must advise against such a breech in security –"

Tony frowned and his voice dropped to a level of hate that nobody had ever heard before. "JARVIS, you are a computer. You are a replaceable hunk of metal and wiring with a fancy voice. _You_ do not advise _me._ Now do as you're told."

There was a pause in the air as Tony waited for the AI to respond affirmatively. When the computer's voice did sound, it was cold and calculated. "Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir. I shall resume duties in the morning. Goodnight, Sir."

And with that, the house was officially asleep, and all eyes were closed.

* * *

Tony knew the ins and outs of all his teammates – that's what made him such a dangerous enemy.

The house was dark, with no gadgets spurring to life. None of the lights coming on as people walked into rooms – no English voice asking questions, no little robots running around.

Tony assessed the practicality of killing all of his friends.

Banner was practically indestructible, and theoretically immortal at this point, even though he didn't like to talk about it. However, he was staying in his apartments near his gamma labs in the basement, he was almost thirty floors away. Tony would have to leave him be, and kill the others silently as to not disturb the good doctor and unleash the hulk.

Tash was the weakest, tonight being the first night back in her own bed. She was at the end of the hallway, and closest to the exit.

She would be sleeping the deepest, and therefore should be killed last.

Barton's soft snores made it obvious he was completely vulnerable and fast asleep as well, but any absence of his snoring would alert Steve.

Steve had super hearing, and he slept lightly. If anyone needed to die first, it was him.

With his plan of action set, Tony grabbed the handgun he kept in his bed side table, cleaning and loading it the way Tash had taught him so many times.

He screwed a Stark industries silencer to the barrel of his weapon, and he strapped a palm-repulsor to his hand. It was one of the smaller ones he had used during flight testing. It was easily concealed and didn't require him to wear the suit.

Clicking the safety off his weapon, Tony silently swung the door to Steve's bedroom open. No light flooded the room, and he paused to listen for any disturbances – nothing. Not a peep.

Tony walked, heel to toe, making not even a rustle as he snuck to Steve's bedside.

He distinguished the outline of Steve's form in his bed, the lump beneath the covers. With a sick grin, Tony raised his weapon, pointing the barrel right at the blonde hairs resting on the pillows.

Inside his head, Tony screamed. He cried and begged, trying desperately to get control over his arms, his legs, and his mouth - anything to warn Steve and save his life. He couldn't believe the nightmare playing out before him.

Purple tendrils and a dark evil laughter echoed inside his mind, wrapping around Tony's cries and silencing him, restricting his limbs. It taunted him, the voice of the witch reminding him how useless and pathetic he was. Tony fought, kicking, biting, and tearing at his captor, tears in his eyes and his voice raw from screaming.

He lashed out with all his strength, finding any weakness or opening he could. Tony felt himself surfacing, clawing to the top, all the while, evil forces were clawing at his legs, dragging him back down – but Tony would not let them win. With his last bit of courage and his final ounce of strength, Tony felt himself snap back into consciousness just long enough to work his own mouth for the first time in 24 hours.

He screamed.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" And Tony fell to the ground, clutching and clawing at his skull, raking fingers into his hair and pulling and twisting, eyes clenched shut and teeth grinding together.

He distantly heard the startled yelp from Steve, covers being thrown back, and the sound of running feet outside in the hall. The lights and doors flew open as the room filled with his teammates.

"NO DAMMIT – RUN!" He yelled at them, desperately trying to get them to flee. But too soon, the wisps of the witch's power wrapped themselves around his head once more. The pull came with so much force, Tony barely had time to yelp before he was stripped of his body and locked away inside his mind once more. His brain was on fire, his blood was boiling from the inside out, and only he could feel it.

On the outside, his teammates gathered around him on the floor, Steve's face still groggy from sleep. They all stared at his huddling form, breathing deep and slowly unclenching.

"Tony?" Tash shuffled forward. "Tony…what's wrong?" she eyes his weapons, immediately assuming a subtle defensive stance. "What are you doing with the handgun? "

"I'm ok, guys, I'm…I'm ok…Just a nightmare…" The fake Tony sputtered. "Just help me up would you?"

Barton approached cautiously, eyeing Steve for the OK. Steve nodded hesitantly, but even he looked unsure. Barton made a step towards Stark, extending his arm. Tony looked up, and their eyes met.

And Tony's flashed purple.

"WHAT THE FUCK-" Barton cried out, staggering backwards, holding his arms up in defense as Tony launched to his feet and let out a bloodcurdling laugh, his whole face alight in a violet glow.

Steve grabbed his shield from the side of his bed just in time to raise it against the bullets that began firing from Tony's handgun.

He opened fire on all of them, swinging his hand up, and the door to the room shut closed and locked all by itself, a purple glow on its door handle.

"CLINT," Steve yelled over the commotion. "IT'S THE WITCH – SHE'S DONE SOMETHING TO TONY!"

Tony fire repulsors from one hand, blasting scorch marks all over Steve's room, destroying desks and papers and clothes and walls. When the team was distracted, he reloaded and quickly opened fire again. It was relentless.

Clint was shielding Natasha, both of them unarmed. "I THINK HE'S IN SOME SORT OF TRANCE, STEVE!" Barton ducked his head to avoid a bullet, rolling behind an overturned wardrobe.

"STARK?" Steve shouted at the man. "STARK! SNAP OUT OF IT!"

But Tony just laughed, and everyone in the room flinched. This wasn't Tony's laugh – this was not the carefree or lighthearted chuckle that always sounded from deep within his chest and made his shoulders shake with content. This was a cruel, twisted laugh that ran shivers down their spines and made their hearts rise into their throats.

"Tony is gone now," the shade of their friend said. "And he won't be coming back."

"WHAT YOU DO TO HIM!?" Barton rose from his position and charged, rage filling his features. Tony simply turned and went to fire at him, but Steve took the opportunity to slam into Stark from the side, sending him reeling off balance. The bullet that undoubtedly would have lodged itself in Barton's chest instead found a home in the wall. Tony was dazed, on the ground, and Steve pinned his limbs to the floor.

"WHERE IS TONY? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" He demanded.

The man on the floor cackled again, only this time, the voice was not Tony's – it was the voice of the old woman, full of spite and malice. "Oh, he's in here. And he's been screaming this whole time." She spit into Steve's face, a mix of mucus and blood. "And its music to my ears."

Barton let out a cry of rage and picked up the handgun Stark had dropped, pointing it at the monster on the floor. Steve stopped him urgently. "BARTON, NO! If you hurt her, you hurt Tony."

"DAMMIT!" Barton cried, frustration and rage and hurt all over his face. "Get. Out. Of. My. Friend. Right. Now. You. Bitch." Barton annunciated through his teeth.

"Clint," Natasha came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Calm."

Barton took a few heavy breaths. Finally, he was settled enough to speak without seeing red. "Why are you doing this?"

His plea was met with cruel, purple eyes that sent waves of fear down Barton's body. It was Tony, but it wasn't all at the same time.

"All we ever did was help you," Natasha spoke curtly, her anger barely contained. "We caused you no harm."

The witch cackled again, but this time it was full of bitterness and cynicism. "All you people ever think you do is _help._ But you cause more harm than good." And she let out a slew of Russian curses that raised Natasha's eyebrows into her hairline, but she translated nothing, nor did she make any more to reply.

"How do we get Tony back?" Steve demanded, giving Tony's body a rough shake.

"You'' have to beat it out of me," she grinned evilly. "Or rather, beat it out _of him_. Have fun torturing your friend."

Steve breathed in through his nose, anger just beneath the surface. He rolled back on the balls of his feet, still effectively pinning the witch to the ground.

"Tony is in there, and we need to help him. There's no telling what he's going through."

Clint nodded, understanding, but his eyes got big and watery. Tash blinked affirmatively.

It was Barton who stepped up, however.

"Alright, Tony," he began, looking into his friend's eyes, searching desperately for some hint that he was in there, listening – but he found none. "I'm real sorry for this, but it's time for some cognitive recalibration."

The witch squirmed and cried bloody murder, but Clint brought his fist up, punching Tony's face with all his strength. The purple shot from their friend's eyes and Tony flopped back, knocked out cold.

* * *

Tony Stark blinked hard, the throbbing in his head was impressive to say the least, and he felt like his throat was sandpaper.

He scrunched his face, testing his neck and his shoulders. He went to rub his hand through his face, but found his motion stopped.

Alertness flooded him with adrenaline. He tugged desperately at his hands and feet, but found himself bound tightly.

"What the hell?!" Tony's eyes searched desperately in the dark but found not a single familiar face.

"Hello?" He called out, noticing the pitchy strain in his voice. "Hello? Please, Somebody. Steve? Tash? Clint? Brucey? Fuck, I'll even take Phil at a time like this. Hello? ANYBODY?"

Nothing, just silence - silence and his own voice for company.

Tony was scared. It was so dark here – so alone. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was pointing the gun at Steve and then…nothing. It was a blur. A blur of screams, and fighting to regain his body…He couldn't remember if he had succeeded or not. There was no telling what the witch did to his friends. The thought made him shake with fear.

Maybe he had killed his friends – maybe this was his prison. Maybe the witch was done with him and left him here to rot once her revenge had been enacted.

It was during this dark thought that Tony heard it – faint at first, but growing louder and louder. A buzzing of sorts, growing and shrinking like a tide of waves, or…voices.

"Tony….here…now…know…are?"

It sounded like Tash, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't trust himself anymore. Chances were that all his friends were dead and he was crazy.

But then it came again.

"Tony…need…you…back …this…Bruce…trying…device…understand…me?"

Bruce? That was definitely Bruce.

"Yes Bruce! Bruce, dammit, I can hear you, but where is everybody?!" Tony shouted into the void. He pulled against his bonds, tearing at them, screaming with the force at which he was pulling, but they hardly budged. But Tony would not give up – his friends might still need him. His body might be out there right now, trying to hurt his family and he would sooner die than let that happen.

"Tony," It was Steve now - his Captain. "It's…time…take….back…Tony."

 _Take back your mind, Tony._

Tony let out a frustrated cry and focused all his attention on his thoughts. He pictured his mind coming to life, the way that a machine reboots – the way that a robot wakes up in the morning, motors spinning and sensors calibrating – the way that he had jumpstarted his suit almost every day for years. He pictured his thoughts, his memories, and his team – anything to ground him to reality. He conjured images of neurons and synapses, firing back to life, carrying commands down to his muscles. He pictured every ounce of purple in his haze being blown away, dissipating like wind.

His bindings loosened around his wrists, and he pulled harder still, slipping loose and free. Lights started to flicker in the dark, and the voices of his teammates grew louder and closer.

"That's it…Coming…around…activity…monitor…he….can hear…keep…Steve!"

"Anthony…get…your ass…right now!"

Tony focused on those voices, sprinting towards the sound of them, his heart pounding and his mouth dry. He was so scared he wouldn't reach them – so scared something would hold him back and drag him again into that nightmare.

But he kept running, and with every step he took, it got easier – easier to move, to breathe.

Until finally he felt like he was on a roller coaster, in a car speeding wildly on a track, with the wind in his face and his neck snapping back with the force of how fast he was going and everything was getting louder and brighter and Tony was scared and then –

 _BAM._

"AHHH!" Tony's eyes shot open and he sat up like he'd been struck by lightning. He was completely disoriented, panting and eyes alight with a feverish panic. He saw the faces of his friends, huddled around him, and trying to calm him down.

That's when Tash touched him.

Tony cringed back from her with a cry, guilt and pain and feelings of violation making him sick as they flooded his brain. He remembered wanting to snap her neck – to squeeze the life out of her – Tony went completely alabaster white and scrambled over the side of the bed to be sick. He coughed and spewed and heaved until nothing was in his stomach, and then he heaved some more. The whole team backed off to give him space – only Bruce held the bucket beneath him, not wanted him to feel alone, but careful not to touch him.

Tony was finished, and he wiped his mouth on the towel Bruce carefully passed him, rinsing his mouth with the water beside his bed. He looked at each of teammates in sparing glances, careful not to make eye contact or stare for too long; Tony curled himself into a ball and brought his knees up to his chest, sitting against his pillows as far on the edge of the bed as he could.

It broke all their hearts.

"Uh-hum," Bruce coughed uncomfortably, regretting it immediately as Tony flinched like a dog who had been hit too many times. Bruce took a slow step back and began to speak in hushed tones.

"Tony, um, we-well, I-uh, the witch's powers were very similar to that of Wanda's, actually - I guess there must be something in the water over there..." The joke was halfhearted and fell flat. "Um, anyways – it…it is a simple manipulation of matter that has electromagnetic properties, affecting light prisms, ultraviolet rays, electrical currents, the –"

"I know the physics." Tony's voice was hoarse and brusque; he sounded absolutely broken. He wasn't saying it to be mean, he wasn't saying it to be curt - he was saying it because he wanted them all to leave as soon as possible…because he hated himself and couldn't believe that they didn't hate him too.

Bruce's heart sank.

"Yes, well, I suppose you do." Banner was quiet. "I attached a small device to the back of your temple – it resembles a cochlear implant. It's reestablishing your nerves and synapses systems to normal levels. The witch sent you into a hypnotic state by intercepting your brainwaves and sending commands to the rest of your body. She was superhuman indeed." He paused. "Think about it like a pacemaker for your brain – but its, well, only temporary. You should be able to take it off by tonight, judging by your charts." The good doctor gave his best smile that he could muster, but everyone saw it for what it was – flat and sad. Not a touch of it reached his eyes.

Tony sat completely still. "Thank you, Bruce." He took a deep breath. "Please leave me alone now - all of you."

Barton started to protest, but Natasha silenced him immediately.

"Ok, Stark. It's ok." Steve rose from his chair. The movement made Tony cringe again, which shattered the blonde man's resolve. A lump formed in his throat, and the room was emptied. They closed the door quietly behind themselves, turning the lights down in the process.

But right before they closed the door, there came a very distinct sound; none of them missed it.

Tony Stark was quietly sobbing.

* * *

The elevator ride upstairs was disturbingly quiet.

That didn't last long of course with an enraged archer in the midst.

"I wish that bitch was still alive," he spat. "So I could pull her limb from limb."

"Clint, just-"

"No, Steve. No, I will not calm down. I am not a good little soldier. And No, Tash-" he held up his hand at her protests. "I don't have the same steely resolve as you every day of my life. I'm fuckin' pissed, and I'm hurt, and I'm devastated, _and one of our brothers_ is in a room so ashamed and so broken that he can't _look at us_ or _touch_ us and we're just sitting around with our heads in our asses and I CAN'T STAND IT SO JUST LET ME GODDAMN YELL IF I GODDAMN WANT TO."

The elevator dinged.

"Feel better?" Bruce piped up softly.

Clint sniffed a little. "Yah, I needed that."

"No problem." Banner paused. "Tissue?" He unfolded a pack from his pocket.

Clint took the one with snowflakes on it as the group got out on their floor.

* * *

Three terrible, slow, grueling days passed before Tony asked to see his teammates. They tried to hide their excitement – they didn't want to charge into the room, emotions flying and voices high – they didn't want to frighten Tony away for good.

They all walked in, quietly and humbly, voices low and sweet smiles on their faces – even Tash let her face go soft. They were trying to be gentle.

Tony looked terrible – better than he had when he first woke up, but he still looked terrible. The implant Bruce had designed left only a small scar, and it was healing beautifully, no bigger than a staple. Tony's eyes were bloodshot and the bags under his eyes told of little to no sleep – but his face looked braver and his body language was much improved from the broken man they had heard crying at the beginning of the week.

The team came in and sat down, anxious to hear what Tony had to say.

"Hi guys." Stark's voice was brittle, but he was obviously trying to sound friendly. "I'm sorry…about what happened when I woke up." He swallowed, lowering his eyes.

"Completely forgiven." Steve said quickly but softly. "We're sorry for overwhelming you."

Everyone nodded. Tony gave a sad smile.

He took a breath.

"When…when I shot out the basement ceiling, the concrete collapsed completely, pinning me to the floor but not killing me. The witch, however, was half dead in an instant. She…she grabbed my face…she _transferred_ something to me – a shred of her consciousness – her energy…" from there Tony told as much of the story as he could remember, and not one member of his team interrupted him. He told of the flight back, the pain of being a captive in his own mind. He told of the purple tendrils, yanking him from consciousness to subconscious. He described in agonizing detail the mental torture – what the witch would show him of her plans, what she wanted, what she had done to others in the past. Their minds had melded sometimes, until he didn't know who he was and who she was.

"She would make me watch-" He choked up, tears filling his eyes. "She would make me watch as she imagined what it would be like to kill each and every one of you. She was very…creative." He shuddered, his stomach threatening to roil. Tony swallowed the bile.

"Natasha," he made eye contact for the first time with her since coming round. "Natasha, she made me want to strangle you with my bare hands. She made every fiber of my being _crave_ the sensation of choking the life out of you, watching the blood vessels in your eyes burst and your face turn scarlet until your fingernails stopped tearing at my arms and your body bucked in death throes. She made me watch that every time I looked at you." Tears were flowing freely down Tony's face now, but his voice remained fairly steady.

"When you touched me – when I woke up-" He choked a little bit. "I was so scared that I would hurt you – so scared that It was my fault, that it wasn't her, that it was me – that I was the one who really wanted to kill you…I didn't know which one of me was real anymore."

Tash closed her eyes, gathering composure, but made no move to go to her friend despite how badly she wanted to hold him and tell him it would be ok.

"Tony…" She stammered out. Her voice cracked, to everyone's surprise. "Tony, can I come and hug you now? I know you won't hurt me. I know it's the real you."

Tony lost it, and he started shaking and holding his weak arms out to her and she practically ran into them. Tony sobbed, and clung to Natasha like a lost babe. She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, whispering sweet words and nothings into his ear. There wasn't a force on this earth that could get her to let go of him at that moment.

"I-I'm sorry." Tony finally choked out. "I'm sorry for not being stronger – I…I tried so hard." Tony glanced up at Steve. "Steve, when I-I was in your room, and I was pointing a gun at your head, I had to rip my way back to the surface, I needed to warn you, I tried so hard, I just I couldn't stop all of it I'm just so sorry I-"

And then it was Steve who flew to the bed, gripping Tony's shoulders tight and staring into his watery brown eyes. "Tony," Steve spoke past the lump in his throat. "Tony, you are the strongest and bravest man I have ever met. And never, _never_ , think that you failed. You tried your hardest and then some – and you succeeded. You warned me, you managed to find your voice. You saved us all. You didn't fail."

Tony nodded along with Steve, reassuring both of them that their words were true, and Tony took in deep shuddering breaths, but they were evening out, bringing him back from the edge of panic.

It was Barton who lightened the mood, of course.

"Well, I certainly hope that my planned death was as intricate as theirs – Jesus, Stark, I'm starting to feel left out." It was dark humor, but Tony actually let out a small, but genuine, laugh.

"Sorry, Featherface – it was just a few bullets to your chest. And Bruce, she didn't even want to mess with you, she knew you'd hulk out and ruin the plan."

Bruce nodded in agreement while Barton voiced his indignation at being "killed in such a boring manner."

After that, Tony laughed with them, hearing them retell their side of the mission, Steve teasing Barton at not being able to carry Tash a "few feet".

"Sorry, Miss America, I'm not a super soldier - I can't run for half a mile with a Nissan on my back."

"Oh, so now I weigh as much as a Nissan?!" Came Nat's furious voice.

"Oh no, Barton. You'd better run." Bruce tisked-tisked from the corner. "Tony isn't trying to kill you anymore, but Tash certainly will."

None of them had ever seen color drain from Clint's face as fast as it did when he met the Russian's gaze. He blubbered apologies, excuses, explanations of metaphors, but nothing could save him now.

Tony went to bed that night on the couch in the common area, too afraid to be alone. Clint had picked out a DVD, and they had all fallen asleep halfway through. Tony was surrounded by his family, sprawled in various positions on the couch and floor. The credits song to "Frozen" could barely be heard over Barton's snores.

The Avengers had never slept more soundly than they did that night.

* * *

 **THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH I had a good time with this one, I thought it was pretty creative use of "hypnosis" as a prompt. You're all fantastic and I promise I will write another chapter tonight so I have something to upload next week. I'm trying my best, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	12. I for Ice

**I is for Ice**

* * *

 **THIS CHAPTER IS STONY IF YOU WEAR STONY GOGGLES - IF NOT, ITS REALLY CUTE FAMILY FLUFF.**

 **Thank you for all the reviews, everyone. Now, I had originally wanted to do hypothermia for H, but the hypnosis prompt was very full of angst and lots of fun to write. But, since ice starts with "i", I figured I would just freeze poor Tony in this chapter instead.**

 **I know a lot of you wanted "injection" or "illness", but i promise all those themes are to come! This one is Domestic!Hero Tony.**

 **ALSO there is established CLINTASHA from now on. I love them.**

 **As for THOR in this chapter, please just assume he is still in Asgard from the last chapter – I am sorry, but I promise the next fic chapter will feature our favorite god of thunder.**

 **ENJOY and PLEASE WRITE ME A REVIEW. 10,000 PEOPLE HAVE READ MY STORIES AND ONLY LIKE 70 OF YOU HAVE REVIEWED IT'S A LITTLE DISCOURAGING.**

* * *

This was going to be the worst blizzard Manhattan had seen in over 50 years.

Shops were closing down, the whole city was in a state of emergency – police were clearing homeless people from the streets and corralling them into schools, churches, and municipal buildings. Shelters were being stocked up on food and water, blankets, and towels. Stark Industries had supplied each public shelter with a self-sustaining generator for free; this allowed residents to charge their devices, make phone calls to love ones, watch cable, or simply sit in warmth.

Thousands of salting trucks stood on standby, ready to go at the drop of a hat, just waiting for the first snowflake to fall.

And when it fell, the heavens came with it.

It snowed for days, dumping almost three feet of the white stuff per night all over the greatest city on earth. Doors were covered, sidewalks unplowable, streets unmaneuverable. The city that never sleeps was wrapped in a quiet blanket of white for three days.

But nobody was expecting what came next. Nobody was expecting the cold.

The snow let up around the end of the weekend, and the millions of residents of New York City both thanked and cursed their gods for not letting the weather interfere with the work week as much as everyone thought it would.

But all thoughts of going to work disappeared the moment they stepped outside. In Fahrenheit, it was negative 19 degrees with a wind chill coming off the ocean of almost negative 30. The antifreeze in cars solidified, bursting engines all over the city. If you went outside, you froze. If you stayed outside, you died. End of story.

Schools were cancelled, businesses told their employees to stay home. It was New York's unofficial January Holiday; and if people had actually been able to go outside to enjoy themselves, they may have had some fun. However, as it was, people had been cooped up inside now for almost a week, and New Yorkers don't do well without activities.

Least of all, Anthony Edward Stark...

* * *

"I'm so _boreddddddddddd…"_ Tony groaned for the sixteenth time that hour. Natasha, who had been enjoying the relative quiet this past week, had to (yet again) resist the urge to get up and put a muzzle on him.

"Stark," she warned. "If you cannot stay silent, I will do it for you." She flipped a page, calmly. "Go bother Barton, he's just as stir crazy as you are – no doubt you and he can find entertainment somewhere." She brought her eyes up from her book and locked with his. "Somewhere, of course, being _elsewhere._ "

Tony just groaned again and pulled himself off the couch, getting the hint. He had been wearing the same pair of sweatpants for two days now, and his T-Shirt was ripe…ahhh, just like when he was a teenager during Christmas break. Lots of sleeping, lots of eating, lots of computer, and _not_ lots of showering.

He trudged his way into the kitchen, grabbing another mug of coffee, and caught the elevator going down to the training rooms where Barton would undoubtedly be climbing something he shouldn't be.

The elevator dinged and Tony stepped out,mug in hand, blowing gently on his first sips to avoid burning his tongue. He shuffled over to Barton's locker, his socks keeping his toes toasty warm on the chilly hardwood floor.

"Hey Clint."

"Hey Tony!" Clint smiled from across the room, dropping his free weights and striding over to clap his friend on the shoulder. Clint brought the engineer in for a brotherly hug and pulled back quickly, his nose scrunched up.

"Were you working out today, too?" the archer asked.

"No, why?" Tony took another sip.

"Cuz you smell terrible," he laughed, waving his hand in front of his nose. "When was the last time you showered, asshat?"

Tony's eyes went wide in indignation. "C'mon, I don't smell that bad!" Tony made the grand gesture of sniffing his own armpits, and froze, pulling away. "Alright, yah, that's, uh- phew, pretty nasty." Both men laughed. Steve, who had been running on the treadmill on the other side of the gym, just looked on in disgust and humored exasperation. He might be the one from the 40's, but these two were absolutely primitive.

"If you boys are done sniffing yourselves," Steve called across with no small level of sass, "maybe you'd be kind enough to go interrupt someone else's workout?"

Tony and Clint rolled their eyes almost simultaneously – honestly, ninety-five percent of the time, they looked more like brothers than friends.

"Honestly, Cap," it was Barton who spoke up first. "Why do you even bother working out? You're DNA is basically nothing but steroids. You could sit on a couch every waking minute for the next fifty years and still get up and run a marathon without breaking a sweat."

Tony followed up. "Spangles, I've literally used algebraic functions and extrapolation graphs to project at what age and under what conditions you will get fat – and so far, it's not mathematically possible." Barton scoffed and Steve just laughed, only slightly winded after being on the treadmill for over an hour at a ten mph run.

"It relaxes me!" he protested, but Clint and Tony were both firm believers that running should only be done if someone was chasing you, so his arguments were lost on their ears.

After several more comments on his body odor, Tony finally caved and went upstairs to shower. Clint retreated to his own suite to do the same. When the two friends emerged, Barton was in a crisp T shirt and sweatpants fresh out of the dryer. His hair smelled beautifully like Old Spice, and when he sat down next to Nat, she ran her fingers through his wet locks and smiled at the familiar scent. He laughed a little, shaking his head and splashing small droplets on her book. She gently swatted his cheek, pretending to be angry; he laughed again, leaning in for a quick kiss.

Rogers watched all this from the kitchen counter where he leaned, drinking from his water bottle and inhaling a ham sandwich. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Clint and Tash were a couple, they hardly ever interacted outside the house – but it was times like this, when they were all cooped up together, that the two let their walls down and flirted and teased and kissed and cuddled. It was really quite adorable.

"EW GROSS! GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!"

Well, at least Steve thought it was adorable.

Tony's juvenile, teasing face peered out from behind the doorframe. That same face then had to duck rapidly to the left to avoid getting murdered by Tash's flying book. Tony just giggled and darted to safety.

Steve laughed, returning to his sandwich. It was while he was chewing that he noticed something off about the resident engineer. He gave Tony a quick once over, confusion settling on his features. Barton had come out in a t shirt and trackpants, but Tony had emerged from his bath wearing a pressed button down, a sweater, and heavy jeans. He was now by the door pulling on arctic-wear boots and wrapping himself in layers.

"You going somewhere, Stark?"

"You bet your spandexed ass, I am." Tony announced loudly, lacing his boot with a grunt. "If I walk in on those two sucking face again, I might vomit." The inventor was clearly teasing about Nat and Clint, but they could all detect the real edge to his voice - he was in desperate need of some free space - even if that free space meant turning into a snowman.

"Stark, you're not going outside, its freezing outside – people have actually died." Steve was getting that tone in his voice, that tone that heralded the arrival of his Mother Hen side. Next would be the nagging, the scolding, the threats, and then, when all else failed, the guilt trips.

Now, Tony had grown up around a lot of Italian women. If there was one thing Maria Stark had taught her son, it was the power of a catholic mother's guilt. But if there was one thing Howard Stark had taught his son, it was how to ignore it.

Sure enough, Steve's eyebrows knitted together in exaggerated concern, almost looking wounded. "You can't seriously be going for a walk right now – do you have a death wish? Don't you know how cold it is? Negative thirty, Tony. NEGATIVE THIRTY. That is an unholy level of cold - and that's coming from someone who spent decades in an ice cube."

But Tony ignored him, shrugging on his zip up fleece over his sweater before donning his enormous down coat, making a point silently of how many layers he was applying.

"I don't care how many jackets you wear, Tony Stark. You could get frostbite, you could lose an ear – your nose – what will you do if you don't have any fingers, Tony? If you don't have your hands, you can't build a prosthetic to REPLACE YOUR HANDS!"

On cue, Tony pulled on a pair of mittens followed by a pair of leather gloves _followed by_ hand warmers being pointedly thrown into his pockets. He wrapped a scarf carefully around his neck and lower face, and snugly pulled his warmest, fluffiest hat onto his head, letting it cover his ears entirely.

Tony looked smug.

Steve looked horrified.

"Fine, Tony. Fine."

 _Here comes the guilt_.

"Fine, just go out and freeze to death because you couldn't stand being cooped up in this tower with your team for any longer. Obviously we aren't entertaining enough for you. Go - go for your walk around Manhattan. Come back as a icicle; see if I come running to wrap you in blankets when you show up at the door absolutely blue in the face and hypothermic with chilblains. Just go, see if I will - just see." And with that, Steve threw his hand into the air and just waited for Tony's reply.

Tony just shot a look at him, raised a single eyebrow, and sighed. Barton giggled from the corner, and Tash smirked into her tea – because they all knew that that's _exactly_ what Steve would do.

"You two are NOT HELPING!" Steve shot them a frustrated glance.

"Yah, uh, guys? I'll be back in an hour." Tony gave them a wave at the door. "If I'm not back in an hour," he turned to Steve this time, but with genuine meaning in his eyes. "Then you have my full permission to call the National Guard and send an arctic expedition crew out to find my body."

Barton and Nat laughed again, but Steve's glare was angry in that motherly way. "Don't say that Tony, that's terrible." He paused, pouting a little bit more before sighing and accepting defeat. "Fine, Tony, just…just promise you'll be back in an hour. I'm serious, not a minute later."

Tony sighed, halfway in the elevator, and turned back towards them all. "I promise. One hour." And he pressed the button for the ground floor, the door closing behind him...

 _...That was yesterday..._

* * *

Tony didn't come back within the hour. Tony didn't come back after the hour.

Tony didn't come back for dinner.

Tony didn't come back, not when he had thirty missed calls and unanswered texts on his phone.

Tony didn't call back when Pepper called the police and sent the city on a manhunt at around 1 am that got called off because the officers were freezing to death.

Tony didn't come back at 3 am when the avengers were still up, waiting in the lobby, expecting him to stagger, half dead, through the door at any minute with mumbled excuses of going snow blind or getting lost or getting too drunk to walk home at some bar on 5th.

Tony didn't come back.

Tony didn't come back because he was covered in his own blood, lying in a dumpster, freezing to death.

He didn't come back because he could not move, with tears frozen to his cheeks as if they were suspended in time, silently begging for his friends to bring him home.

* * *

 **12 hours earlier**

* * *

Cold.

It was the cold that hit Tony the moment he stepped out of the lobby at Stark Towers.

The wind whipped at his face so painfully that the only option was to walk backwards on certain streets so that the ocean breeze didn't crack his skin. His layers were his armor, and they served him very well, keeping his heat in and breaking the chill for the most part, but there was a deeper cold in the city – a bone drilling cold that sat in the air. No amount of parkas could protect you from it for too long, Tony knew. He would keep this walk short, maybe spare Steve the stress and come back within a half hour instead.

Tony was the only one on the streets that afternoon – something he had never experienced in all his years of living in the Big Apple. Usually, these sidewalks were packed so thick that if you looked down, you didn't know which feet were yours. But today, Tony was alone. The silence here was unsettling. This neighborhood should be filled with shouting of vendors and horns honking impatiently from intersections. Pedestrians should be screaming at taxis and rude bikers, children should be laughing on class field trips and snapping photos – shops should be open and warm and alight with old, familiar faces. The corners should be occupied by apocalyptic zealots and naked cowboys with guitars.

It was so quiet.

Tony trudged along on the side of the road – sidewalks were buried four feet down, only the driving lanes were plowed – but no cars were on the streets either. Tony was alone, save for the rare plow truck that whizzed at a distant perpendicular intersection.

Tony walked for almost two miles in the silence, beginning to appreciate it the way he had seen Tash do so many times; but it was the same blissful quiet that made the nastiness in the nearby alley so much more sinister.

"No, please-no, HELP! Stop! PLEASE, NO- P –PLEASE, HELP! HELP ME!" a young woman's voice was frantic, screaming and begging. There were sounds of a struggle, and her sobs being smothered.

Tony was already running, the weight of his clothes and his boots straining his muscles but not slowing him down.

The Avenger burst up the snowbank into the alley and stood in a defensive stance, ready to save the damsel in distress –

But no one was there.

Tony blinked once.

Stark didn't even have time to be confused before a _white hot pain pierced his back_ , just to the left of his spine. He gasped, in too much pain and too much shock to let out anything other than a warbling cry.

"Uhn, uhn," Tony exhaled, guttural sounds escaping his mouth as he dropped to his knees. Soon, two figures came into view at the edge of his vision.

"Thank you for the coat, my friend – and your pretty boots. They'll keep me 'n my girl here nice and warm." The older man smiled, his teeth brown and stained. His hair was disheveled and his own coat was in tatters. The girl that stepped out from beside him was no different – her own teeth were brown and black as well – heroin for the both of them, no doubt. She looked as though she hadn't washed her hair in months. They both had tattered old jackets on, and nothing but sneakers for their feet – but they would have been dead by now if they had been living outside. They must have been staying in a shelter…one powered by Stark Technologies.

 _Oh the irony,_ Tony thought before another wave of pain hit him.

The man unsheathed the knife from Tony's muscle, and immediately, Stark let out a strangled yelp. Hot crimson flowed down Tony's back and soaked into his fleece. It hadn't been a big switchblade, only about two inches long, but a stab wound was a stab wound. Tony need to get back to Stark Towers – Bruce would take care of him. Bruce would…stitch him...make...better..

"Bruce…Bruce…" Tony stuttered airily, unaware he had been saying it out loud.

"My names not Bruce, friend." The man crouched in front of him with a dreadful, stinking sneer. "It's Chuck – but it doesn't matter that you know me, you won't be around long enough to tell anyone." And with that, he gave a kick to Tony's stomach. Tony felt two of his ribs snap, and the pain sent the young man reeling over, gasping for breath; but that movement aggravated his stab wound, sending more blood pulsing out of the gash. Tony felt faint, and he was sure he was going to be sick.

Without warning, the girl was upon him now, grabbing him roughly, ripping his gloves and mittens off – wrenching his neck around in order to steal his scarf from where he had so carefully tucked it to prove to Steve that he would be fine….Steve…He should have listened to Steve.

Tony couldn't be bothered to fight the two crackheads – he was too weak and too afraid that they would kick his ribs again. They stripped him of his jacket, and not gently. The man, Chuck, circled around Tony like a vulture, let out a laugh, and plunged the heel off his own boot into the stab wound on Tony's side, sending him face first into the gravel and snow in the shallow alley. Tony let out a cry, weakly crawling to get away, before the men grabbed Tony by the leg, ripping his boots off, and dislocating Tony's ankle in the process.

The engineer let out a howl of pain, clawing at his boot, just begging the man to untie it and take it off, but Chuck was sadistic, and probably high out of his mind, and he just kept pulling and pulling until it finally gave way, leaving a limp and purpling left ankle hanging in the cold air.

Tony just saved them the trouble of the next one and untied it for them, handing the boot over with shaking hands.

Tony simply held up his hands. "Enough," he called. "Enough, please. I-I haven't done anything t-to you."

But they were not done, and they figured they may as well take whatever Tony had left. So they shook him and went through his pockets, fishing out his wallet and taking his cash, stripping him of his watch, his cards, and his cellphone.

In a stroke of genius, Tony thought to call out for JARVIS. The AI was always active on his phone.

He flicked a nervous glance to his captors, who were too busy staring in awe at the amount of cash their victim carried with him, no doubt imagining how many fixes it would buy them. _I hope you overdose on it,_ Tony couldn't help but spit vehemently in his mind. He looked to his phone sitting crudely in the girl's filthy hands. It was now or never.

"JARVIS, 911 PROTOCOL, CLEARANCE CODE 3-" But Tony didn't finish the activating the protocol. The girl shrieked, catching on too quickly, and threw the phone down. She smashed it under her heel, stomping and stomping until not even the great Tony Stark could put it back together again. The man scowled in outrage at Tony's attempted rescue, and he took out his rage on Tony's face. Mr. Stark could only watch the fists coming towards him.

When Chuck was through, Anthony Stark looked like a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone. His left eye was swollen completely shut, his nose was broken, his bottom lip was cut, and there was a steady trickle of blood coming from where Chuck's fist had split his cheekbone.

To add insult to injury, they took his favorite hat and stripped him off his fleece as well, despite the large bloodstain on its back.

Now all he had on was his jeans, his button up, and a ripped pullover cashmere - basically what he had left his bedroom in.

They were also kind enough to leave him his socks.

* * *

 ** _Meanwhile_**

* * *

Back at Stark Tower, Steve watched the clock, frustration growing rampant with every minute that passed.

It was exactly sixty five minutes since Tony had left, and on the hour, Tash had been forced to physically withhold the phone from Steve's grasp because he was sincerely about to call the national guard.

"It's Tony," she had sternly reminded him. "Stark will be late to his own funeral! Just let him enjoy his walk, he'll be back when he feels like it."

And so Steve had settled down.

But now the second hour was approaching, and he even caught Tash sending discreet but worried glances at the clock. He noticed she hadn't turned her page in about ten minutes, which meant that she was just as preoccupied with Tony's absence as Steve was.

"Maybe…maybe we should just call him." She suggested quietly from the couch. She didn't have to say it twice.

"JARVIS," Steve called into the empty room. "JARVIS, call Tony immediately."

There was a pause and a few soft dial tones as Jarvis brought up Tony on caller ID.

" _Captain, there appears to be a problem. My system cannot interface with Sir's cellular device – it appears to have been severely damaged."_

"Dammit, Stark!" Steve huffed. He crossed his arms and paced ever so slightly, "Just – Just try again, will you?"

" _Yes, Captain."_

But Tony never picked up.

* * *

When that bastard, Chuck, and that squirrelly bitch left Tony to rot in the alley, Tony remembered taking deep breaths. He remembered thanking a God he had long since abandoned for not letting them kill him. He had just been so thankful they had left, that they had let him be.

He didn't remember closing his eyes in relief. He didn't remember his brain drawing back into itself against the pain.

He certainly didn't remember falling asleep.

But now Tony was awake, and the sun had set. New York City was dark and eerily quiet and Tony was afraid.

He was afraid because the only warmth he could feel was the wound on his back and the swelling radiating from his face. His hands were numb and almost purple with cold; his feet were soaking wet and absolutely blue beneath his heavy woolen socks, he could tell. His dislocated ankle was blissfully sensationless, but Tony knew that that wasn't a good thing, as nice as it may be for the time being.

Tony had to get home- back to the tower, where Steve would be waiting for him with a big blanket and hot drinks just like he said he _wouldn't_ be.

The beaten man shuffled painfully to his feet, his injured back and cracked ribs screaming all the while, but he had to move – he needed to get home.

His walk had taken him far from residential Manhattan and more into the industrial parks and warehouses near the docks; Tony was seriously regretting ever getting out of his sweatpants this morning.

Tony braced himself up against the brick wall, scooting himself behind a big blue dumpster to break the wind's howling chill. Sure enough, it was noticeably warmer next to the garbage, although the smell was far from charming. Tony took a few quick pulls of the frigid air, bracing himself for the pain, and wrapped one hand around his lower calf and one hand around his foot. Before he could give himself any time to hesitate, he jerked his ankle back into place with a sickening _pop_ and let out a scream between his teeth. The pain ebbed away quickly, actually feeling much better than it had before, but dots still swam in Tony's vision – and when he closed his eyes to breathe and assess his other injuries – Tony noticed the shivering.

It was a full body trembling that was so violent he could hardly move. His body was trying so hard to keep him warm, but with only jeans, socks, a button up and a sweater on, in this weather, Tony was bound to freeze to death in another hour if he stayed exposed like this. He needed to move.

He used the edge of the dumpster to haul himself to his feet, he tentatively tested the strength of his ankle. Now that it was in its proper position, the swelling was going down ever so slightly, but it still couldn't hold any real weight.

Tony scowled, cursing his luck and his own stupidity. He curled in on himself, desperately trying to stay warm, but still feeling hypothermia take effect. After all, he had been asleep for at least two hours, unsheltered and wet, losing blood and probably concussed. This was not a good day.

Tony blinked a few times to clear his head and his thoughts. Practicality sank in over his flight or fight.

If he ran, he would leave the shelter of the alley and the dumpster, most likely dropping unconscious by the time it took him to go a mile from the sheer cold and extent of his injuries. His stab wound still oozed blood, but not nearly as much as it had. Still, Tony was incredibly faint from the loss, and his whole body ached in protest with every movement. There as no way he would make it to Stark Towers alive.

If he stayed where he was, the alley would protect him from the snow and the wind. The dumpster could keep him warm, albeit smelly. He just needed warmth. His body was absolutely frozen – the water in his eyes stung every time he blinked.

Besides, soon enough, the team would get worried enough that they would call him. Upon him not answering, Tony reasoned, they would track his last GPS signal which would lead them right to this alley.

All Tony had to do was wait.

So, Tony Stark, billionaire MIT graduate and superhero, crawled pitifully into the New York City dumpsters, nestling himself under the warm black plastic bags filled with composting foods and unholy garbage. The scent assaulted his nose, affronting him directly as if he'd run into a wall. The heat wasn't much, but to Tony it was beautiful. The warmth enveloped him, like a baby being swaddled. He curled up in a ball, ignoring the scream of his pulling wound and his shifting, popping ribcage, and felt exhaustion take him back down the path of unconsciousness.

It wouldn't be long. His team would find him – they always find him.

* * *

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN _YOU CAN'T FIND HIM_?!" Pepper Potts did not often lose her professional composure, but when she did, she was absolutely terrifying. Barton almost felt sorry for the unassuming Junior SHIELD Agent staring open-mouthed at his computer screen, willing it to give him some other answer if only to save himself from this screaming woman.

"M-Ma'am, I am sorry, b-but the storm – It took down half the cell towers in New York. We can't bounce his GPS signal any further. A-All we know is that he is somewhere in this dead zone – r-right here!" And the poor kid pointed with a shaking hand to a zone of red on his satellite map covering at least six square miles of Manhattan.

Steve sucked in a breath, exhaustion and stress apparent on his face. Tony could be anywhere in that radius – it would take too long to check everywhere – they needed to narrow it down.

It was approaching 2 in the morning now. Tony had been missing since six o'clock that evening.

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO, OR HOW YOU DO IT – FIND HIM." Pepper almost grabbed the kid by his shirt collar, but a calming hand from Natasha just made Pepper stutter for breath before her eyes welled up in tears.

"Why does he do this to me, Natasha?" Pepper mumbled, tears in her eyes and panic ebbing with every word. "He gives me heart attacks at least once a month and sometimes I think he enjoys it – I cannot do this anymore, my health cannot handle this much stress…" Pepper trailed off, completely dazed and unaware that Tash was basically leading her out of the room. She exited, all the while mumbling and throwing her hands up in surrender, fresh sobs escaping her throat.

Steve watched Pep go with an aching in his chest. The NYPD had called the hunt off an hour ago, and frankly, Steve couldn't blame them. Even with the serum turning him into a human oven, Steve had been _cold._ Colder than he had been since – well, Steve didn't like to think about the plane, but he couldn't help but picture Tony, alone and scared and deathly cold if not already…No, Tony Stark would not die from a little snowstorm – if anything, his stubbornness would prevent it.

Steve walked to the door of the command room and suited back up, wrapping himself in as many layers as he could stand. He printed off the map on the GPS locator screen. Six mile radius be damned, Captain Rogers would search every last inch of it. He never left a man behind.

Tony Stark would not die. Not tonight.

Not when Steve still had to tell him " _I told you so"._

* * *

 **Four o'clock in the morning**

* * *

The snow began falling again sometime during the night. Tony wasn't exactly sure when – all he knew is that the unwelcome little bastards were invading his dumpster and landing on the bags, melting from the heat, and dripping into his hair.

Tony was exhausted, and he had certainly warmed up in the pile of waste. His toes were less numb, and his hands seemed slightly less blue and just pale...which heralded a whole new problem.

Sometime in his slumber, he had contorted his back and reopened the stab wound. Blood had poured freely. Tony could tell by his swimming vision and severe fatigue that his blood loss was reaching crucial levels – never mind if the switchblade punctured anything important – Tony could have mere hours left to live.

Where were his friends? Where was his team? Had they abandoned him? Forgotten about him completely?

When he didn't show up for dinner, they probably all laughed and cheered, so glad to be rid of him after these last few days. He couldn't help but remember Tash's glares of annoyance – Steve's scolding looks – even Bruce had kept himself occupied in the labs and had actually had to ask Tony to leave at one point because he was getting so badly on his nerves his eyes flashed green.

Tony had been an impetuous child, he knew that – but he couldn't believe that his friends would just leave him out here like this. Tears began to well in the engineer's vision, but he wiped them away quickly, knowing that they would freeze to his face and scratch his eyes if he was not careful.

Tony knew it was just his weakness and the cold that were making him think so cynically, but knowing they were falsehoods didn't banish the thoughts from his head. Knowing he was being melodramatic didn't make him feel any less abandoned.

Tony was deep in thought until he noticed it.

And when he noticed it, he should have panicked. He should have felt adrenaline fill his veins; he should have burst from the dumpster and sprinted home, ankle be damned.

But when he noticed it, all he could bring himself to do was mouth a quiet little "oh," and let his body start to shut down.

Tony Stark had stopped shivering.

The clock was ticking.

* * *

 **Six o'clock in the morning**

* * *

Tony watched the sunrise bathe the sky with a taunting light – a promise of warmth that wouldn't come.

The night had been long and dark, and there had been times that Tony shivered so violently he thought he might die from the pain, but here he was, alive, but supposed he really should be impressed that he lasted this long. The garbage pile, the heat of the decomposition, had kept him fighting like a life support – but the night is always coldest before the dawn, and Tony could feel none of his extremities by the time the sun peaked around the skyline. The only reminder that he was still alive was his sluggish heartbeat and the occasional blink that he had to remind himself to take because his brain was functioning much to slow.

He tried to keep himself alert – some simple math problems maybe.

 _Derivative of e to the power of_ _x_ _?_

He went to respond – then he realized he didn't know.

 _Its ok,_ he told himself, _it's been a long time since calculus. How 'bout some simple trigonometry, Tony?_

 _What's the sin value of pi/6?_

 _Square root of 3 over 2,_ he proudly told himself…. _or was it square root of 2 over 2? No, that was sin pi/4, wasn't it?_

 _Wasn't it?_

Tony felt fear at the back of his throat – but it left as soon as it came. Fatigue was washing over him now. The pull of sleep was so inviting. He hardly felt cold anymore – in fact, the snow melting into is hair was almost warm.

 _This is a certainly one of the more peaceful ways to go_ , Tony mused. _Besides, it's best that I die here in a dumpster with some dignity than have to listen to the countless streams of "I told you so" from Miss America._

Tony tried to laugh at his own joke, but couldn't bring himself to expend that much energy. The frost on his lashes tickled his frostbitten cheeks – wait, when did he close his eyes?

 _Oh well, I guess this is it then_ … Tony's heart swelled, sluggish as it was. The engineer's chin quivered, and a stray tear slid down his face. This time, Tony had to let it freeze there.

He couldn't have brought up his hand to catch if it he tried.

The darkness was rushing towards him, Tony could feel it. It wasn't scary, it wasn't ominous - It was a little intimidating, but Tony had faced down worse. He had died several times in his life, he thought suddenly with a smirk, but this was certainly not the worst.

It was as Anthony Edward Stark was making his peace with this world that he heard it.

It was a sound that made him hold his breath for fear it would come again – because if it came again, it would fill him with so much desperate hope that he would sob if it turned out to be a trick of the mind.

But sure enough, it came again.

"…Tony...?"

Far off, to be sure, but undoubtedly the stubborn and hoarse shout of the one and only Steve Rogers.

"…TONY STARK...?" Steve's voice was getting closer, and the engineer would have sobbed with joy if he could muster the strength to inhale.

"St-"the sound was pathetic. Tony tried to call louder. "Steve?" It was still quiet, but the super soldier had enhanced hearing – Stark just prayed it was enhanced enough.

Tony could make out the sounds of Steve's heavy winter boots, now. The soldier was getting closer and closer to Stark's humble little alley.

"TOOOO-NYYYYY?" The captain called into the abandoned industrial yards, cupping his hands around his mouth. Honestly, Steve was exhausted and frigid and was almost completely out of hope. He had searched every grid block of the radius – this was the last one. If he didn't find his friend then…Tony wouldn't make it another night, if he had even managed to survive this past one...Steve shuddered again, but not from the cold. He was afraid - afraid of _not_ finding Tony...but also afraid of _what he might find._

"Steve" Tony's voice was hoarse and quiet, but this was it. This was his last shot as survival. Somehow, he managed to fidget, to move and crinkle to garbage bags. "Ste-"He coughed out. No, he would not die today. _Do Better_ , he commanded himself. Mustering up his last ounces, he let a final attempt escape his icy throat and part his blue lips.

"STEVE" He cried, and then faltered completely. His body was giving up, his vision was tunneling, and he was spiraling down, down, down…

"TONY?! TONY!" And that's when Tony felt Steve's body shake the trash bin, his hands digging furiously under mountains of rotten smells until he found it – that feel of solid flesh and bone, of ice cold limbs…and a barely breathing man.

Steve Rogers had never prayed in a dumpster, but he shot a glance to the sky and thanked God as he pulled Tony's frozen form from the trash.

Tony was completely blue – head to toe, barely clinging to life. Steve was stripping out of his clothes immediately, bundling Tony in everything he had without reservation. Steve noticed the brutal stab wound on Tony's back, but now was not the time to interrogate the poor man – now was the time to save him from severe hypothermic shock.

To Tony, the mittens and boots forced onto his lips were blisteringly hot – they stung at his skin and the pins and needles they caused were absolute agony.

Steve's jacket was intoxicatingly warm, and Tony felt himself falling asleep fast, his body still refusing to shiver. Steve had found him – but it might still be too late.

Steve, now completely shirtless and only wearing his snow pants and socks, scooped Tony off the hard alley floor and jarred his face with a quick slap, guilt immediately sinking low in his stomach as he took in the heavy bruising around Tony's eyes and mouth – and a particularly nasty gash on his cheek.

Tony needed medical attention urgently, and without cell service, and not wanting to leave the poor man to _find_ reception, he knew he had but one choice.

He was determined to keep Tony awake, and he forced the engineer to talk to him the whole run to the hospital – and yes, it was a run. Steve Rogers was sprinting half naked down snowy, arctic streets of Manhattan carrying a bundled up Tony Stark in his arms like an injured child,

"So tell me, Tony," Rogers panted. "What are some projects you've been working on?"

If Tony could have felt his face, he would have smirked.

"A-a..you..tryin' t' flirt w'me, Cap..?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Stark, just some small talk to make sure you don't get to sleep when I haven't had a nap in over 24 hours - just wouldn't be fair, would it?" Steve gave a breathy laugh, still running, but felt his heart sink hen Stark couldn't even muster a reply.

"Tony, talk to me. I'm serious. Tell me about your projects."

"I 'ave dis…new…'bot…I d'nno wa' t' call…'er…yet, b-but she's…b'tiful…" Tony could hardly form words, but Steve was slightly reassured by the fact that Tony's lips were less blue than they had been five minutes ago. Pink almost danced at their edges.

"What does the new robot do, Tony?" Only five more blocks to go, Steve was counting. He wrapped Tony tighter against his chest, trying to share as much of his own warmth as he could. Five more Blocks. He picked up his speed.

"She...picks...up...arrows...f'r…Clint…"

"That's pretty cool, Tony. Clint's gonna love that, so you gotta make sure you finish that project soon and give it to him before our next mission." Steve waited for a reply.

"Tony?"

Nothing.

"TONY?!" Steve looked down at the brown haired man. His eyes were shut and his breathing was coming much too slow. Steve's ears could pick up his heartbeat.

It was slowing down. He was succumbing to the cold - he was dying in Steve's arms.

"No, no, no, NO, NO, NOOO!" Steve cried. If he thought he had been sprinting before, he was wrong. He went ripping around corners, desperately wishing for a cab to show up, or a plow truck, or a cruiser – anything to get to the hospital faster. But as it was, Steve's transponder had lost all service in the dead zone, leaving him unable to relay Tony's position. At this point, just continuing with the run was faster than waiting for SHIELD.

Steve was breathing heavy when the hospital came into view, but he still managed to shout at emergency workers near the ambulance bay. He ran straight past the waiting nurses, straight past the check in desk at the emergency room, and straight past the "DO NOT ENTER" doors on the intensive care unit.

Steve burst down the first door of a room he could find, thanking god again that it was empty (because that would have been really awkward) and he ran into the bathroom.

He could not care less at the stampede of footsteps well behind him, chasing him up to where he'd ran. Steve rogers was much too occupied with turning the shower on warm, not hot, but warm, and stripping Tony Stark down to his ridiculously expensive silk boxers. Then, casting his own snow pants off, Steve stood in his plain cotton drawers, supporting the engineer with all his strength. He lowered them both into the tub, pulling the stop on the drain so that the tub would fill.

The water was warm, Steve knew, not scalding – but still, when it came in contact with even the super soldier's skin, it was such a drastic temperature change that it felt like a burn. Steve winced, but never let go of Tony, running the warm water over his torso, over the arc reactor, and then rubbing his hands and feet, trying to get the blood flow back into the engineer's extremities. Bile crept up the Captain's throat as he remembered teasing Tony earlier today, telling him that he would be useless if he lost his hands.

Now, looking at the engineer's blue and purple fingers, he would give anything to take it back.

The nursing staff caught up with them eventually, but by then, Steve and Tony were fully immersed in a warm tub. Steve was turning the temperature of the water up every few minutes, allowing Tony's frozen form to adjust without bursting his blood vessels. Steve didn't take a deep breath until Tony gave a small cough and shifted, pressing his frostbitten nose into the crook of Steve's collarbone. It was cold as all hell, and made Steve want to pull back and away, but instead he leaned into the smaller man's touch, providing as much warmth as he could.

The nurses watched from the side, taking Tony's vitals – only once Steve had given them permission to touch him, of course. To say Steve was being protective was the understatement of the century. His eyes were crazed, like an animal, and you would have had to put a bullet between in his head to get him to let go of the smaller man.

The doctors just sort of admitted Tony to the room – after all, he was already in the tub - and they tried to tell Steve to take him out of the water so they could examine him, but Steve blatantly refused. He told them of the stab wound, he let them inspect the injuries to Tony's face and the deep purple bruising of the engineer's ribs, but Steve was very adamant that until Tony was warm, everything else could wait. In the meantime, he did allow the nurses to attach a heated IV line to the engineer's arm. They knelt beside the tub, disinfectant and gauze in hand, and expertly inserted the tap line into the man's frozen veins. Steve nodded his appreciation as they hooked up a transfusion bag to Mr. Stark, who, as Steve had helpfully told them, was blood type A+.

It took thirty minutes of soaking in the tub, increasing the temperature step by step, until Tony was almost pink and pruney. Steve had almost cried with relief when he had started shivering again. The engineer had opened his eyes a few times, weakly called out names, and flailed slightly, shivers racking his body – but he had survived.

The hardest part was getting Tony out of the tub. The avenger was in a delirium of hypothermic shock and exhaustion. The moment Steve lifted him from the tub, he shivered even harder, crying out as he tore at the obviously infected stab wound on his lower back. Then, Tony had clung to Steve with all his failing strength, striking out at anything or anyone who tried to pry them apart.

So, it ended up being that Captain America had to cradle the cold and shaking form of Iron Man as nurses draped them both with electric blankets and switched out Tony's blood transfusion for warmed IV fluids mixed with a sedative.

Tony was unconscious instantly, allowing the nurses to patch up his back and the various abrasions on his face, as well as brace his ankle and his ribs. He stirred only slightly, once, when Steve tried to remove himself from the sheets, and he started wailing in his sleep to the point that Steve just gave up and returned to the chattering icebox of a man, the super soldier now almost sweating with how much heat was coming off the electric blankets.

However, Tony was looking much better. His skin was completely pink now, albeit pale and wane.

His fingers were still blue around the nails, but the doctors had assured him that Tony Stark would miraculously leave this hospital with all ten fingers and all ten toes. His breathing was steady and loud, and his heart was slow but completely steady and assuring.

His face looked a little worse for wear; now that there was no cold to keep the swelling down, the bruises and cuts exploded across his face, and the nurses had smeared a thick salve on the blackened tips of his nose and ears - basically, he looked terrible. Pepper, bless her heart, would probably have an absolute fit when she saw the state he was in, but at least he was alive.

Steve had made one of the nurses call Stark Towers for him about 15 minutes ago to give the team an update – he knew they would be here any minute, no doubt incredibly angry at him for disappearing and going to search by himself. They wouldn't be seriously mad, just concerned and frustrated and desperate to yell at someone who wasn't on death's door.

Basically, Steve was going to be their Tony stand-in and get scolded to the end of the universe and back.

"Well," Steve cast one more glance down at his teammate, silent and peaceful in sleep. "Tony, I hate to say I told you so…" And he trailed off, a laugh sitting on his upturned lips. He clutched the smaller man tighter, and Steve allowed himself to breathe easy for the first time since Tony had stepped out the door.

* * *

For the next week that Tony was back at Stark Towers, people never left his side. Someone was always putting extra socks on his feet or handing him a hot beverage or placing an extra blanket across his lap.

There was always a hand ready to sit him closer to the fireplace or turn the thermostat up or put burn cream on his frostbite or put warming pads under his seat.

Everyone volunteered to change the dressing on his stab wound or rebind his ribs or get him the remote or pick up his favorite takeout.

People dropped off new slippers or canned soup, hats and mittens – hell, his goddamn accountant even sent him a scarf.

If Tony had to look at one more article of winter clothing he was going to vomit.

But, he couldn't ask to be left alone, because as it was just his luck, he had contracted a serious case of pneumonia after his escapade in the dumpster, and he needed people to wake him up and give him his meds or fetch him his inhaler when he couldn't breathe or turn him on his side if he was having a coughing fit which made his ribs ache which pulled at his stitches which just fucking sucked.

It was Hell.

But at least Hell had Natasha, rubbing circles on his chest with Vicks VapoRub when his lungs were too clogged. Hell had her, reading him the inspirational messages on his Halls wrappers.

Hell had Bruce regaling him with details of his new studies and experiments, asking for Tony's opinion on theories he was coming up with, laughing when one of them was disproved because Bruce had been exhausted and accidentally added 12 and 1 to get 14. Tony had laughed so hard he cried, all the while hacking up a lung. But he didn't care, it was goddamn hilarious

At least he had Barton to make him soup for three meals a day without a single complaint, even when Tony would sneeze into the bowl mid-dinner and splash it everywhere - forcing Barton to pour him a new serving and wipe down the table with as much disinfectant as he could find.

At least Hell had Steve and Pepper, fussing over him, changing his bed when his fever ran high and he threw up on his quilt or sweated through the sheets. They were there, helping him in and out of the shower when his ankle throbbed or his head spun or he couldn't pull in enough air and he got dizzy. They took care of him, every step of the way.

At least he was home.

At least he had his family.

* * *

 **Ok, I loved this chapter guys, and I think it had a really great insight into aftercare, which I know a lot of you guys were wanting to see more of.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	13. J for Jump Part 1

**J for Jump Part 1**

* * *

 **IMPORTANT: This chapter is so much fun if you are an RDJ fan and loved him in the Sherlock Movies, as I did. You will all notice the Reichenbach references, and I think its fucking awesome, but that's probably cuz I'm the one who wrote it so yah…**

 **Ok, so this prompt is one that wasn't so much a prompt more than a plot theme – I had a lot of requests for "Jump", but a specific request that we see more of Tony sacrificing himself for his teammates. Naturally, I am happy to oblige. Please enjoy this latest installment of cruelty…**

* * *

The quinjet blades whirred at their familiar frequency, adjusting speed and repulsion angle to settle the aircraft as gracefully as possible. Before the landing gear was even fully braced on the ground, the bridge was descending from the rear of the plane. Heavy metalloid boots stomped into the wet grass, followed by the purposeful strides of combat boots. The two were flanked by the rustle of Kevlar and the clicking of arrow heads.

More footsteps joined the parade, this time descending from the sky – but landing much less gently than the quinjet. Black footgear, lined with alien metals, quickly fell in sync with the march of its teammates.

"We are close. I can feel it." The Asgardian's eyes were hooded in severity – his long blonde mane was concealed under a dark hood that covered the length of his body. Stealth was of the utmost importance to the team. If they did not have the element of surprise, they had nothing.

"Iron Man, scanning report." Steve Rogers spoke softly, but not in a whisper. His commanding tone was hard to miss. There as a sharpness to his voice that the team often forgot he was capable of – but who could blame him? This mission had put the whole team on edge.

Even Tony, who was usually brazen and childish, had relinquished all juvenile schemes. His face the mask of perfect discipline, the gravity of the situation becoming more and more apparent with all that Thor had relayed to them during briefing.

JARVIS interpolated within his helmet, throwing up heat signatures and lifeform analysis. Although there was nothing in the immediate proximity, readings were getting…. _odd_ … deeper into the forest.

"There is," the engineer began softly, "a gamma anomaly radiating from the epicenter of the magnetic field we had found earlier." Calculations and extrapolations started flying through his mind, each grimmer than the last. "Whatever she is, she is not leaving without one hell of a fight, you guys."

"A fight is what we're trying to avoid. We just want to talk, remember?" Steve, ever the voice of practicality.

"This is one hell of a chit-chat, boys." Natasha spoke softly, running her fingers over her gear.

Barton leaned in to Tony's side, mumbling under his breath. "If we're just hear to chat her up, I don't think I'm the man for the job. You can tell by my taste in women that I'm not much of a conversationalist."

Tony gave a hearty laugh, then choked it down into silence and scoffed a bit, the mischievous smile playing at his lips hidden under his faceplate. Barton had no shield for his shit-eating grin, and it was quickly killed by Thor's glance of disdain.

"This is no laughing matter, Friend Archer." The stormy eyes of the Asgardian king were roiling, a mix of pain and anxiety. "Levity will be our doom. This must be treated as delicately as possible." He looked ahead into the dark. "There is no telling what she has become by now; and perhaps even more terrifying, there is no telling what she will become if we do not succeed." Thor let out a shaky breath. "If we fail, Midgard is forfeit."

* * *

 **24 hours earlier, SHIELD BRIEFING ROOM**

* * *

"Sorry, Who?"

"Frejya."

"Fraza?"

"No, _Freyja_."

"Felma?"

"By Gods, man of arrows, you-"

"Settle, children." Natasha didn't even look up from her utility belt as she studiously inspected and cleaned it, tightening straps and securing ties.

Steve, from the other side of the room, scrunched his forehead and brought a hand to his temple. "Just-Just go through it again, Thor? Tell Fury what you told us this morning."

"Yah, Caped Crusader, tell Dear Saint Nick what you told us this morning – you remember, right after you burst through my fifty-thousand dollar window and landed on my Italian Leather Sofa." Tony shot a venomous glare to the Asgardian who at least had the decency to shrug apologetically.

"I do beg forgiveness for disturbing your slumbers," He caught Tony's eye again. "And for disturbing your upholstery – but it was of the utmost import that I warn you all of the threat you now face."

Nicholas Fury, who had been silent up to this point, placed his elbows on the conference table, lacing his fingers and putting his lips to his knuckles. He rested, in such a position, for only several more moments, deep in contemplation, bracing himself for the next disaster.

The director's one eye locked authoritatively onto the Norseman's face.

"What is it, Thor? And how do we stop it?"

"Her name is Freyja – Lady Freyja, and she is of kin to me - we are both Asgardian, but she is very ancient and of other times and older realms. In the Midgardian tongue – the Norse folk who worshipped us – her name means 'The Woman'…" Thor trailed off slightly, obviously unsettled. "Freyja is a great warrior and a powerful omen among men. In your old religions, and in ours, she is akin to a goddess. She represents the best and worst of man: her very visage is that of intense sexuality, beauty, fertility, riches-"

"I have yet to see the down side." Tony interjected, high fiving Clint in the process. Steve rolled his eyes and threw a pen across the table at the two of them. Thor glared, pointedly, emphasizing his next words with care.

"She is also the harbinger of greed, sorcery, war, and death. She is two sides of a coin melded into a single being, and her power is far more than even Loki could ever have hoped to achieve. Freyja is of old magic, not even comparable to my brother's silver-tongued manipulations and malice.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room as the mood darkened noticeably. Tony couldn't help but contemplate the meaning of Thor's words. If Asgardians were seen as ancient gods to humans, but Asgardians have their _own ancient gods…_ These were old forces more powerful than they could ever hope to understand.

The Director spoke for the first time. "Why is Freyja a threat to us, Thor? Why now?"

Tony sat up straighter – leave it to Nicholas, always asking the right questions.

Thor's head drooped in a bitter display of regret and mortification. "I am ashamed to say that it was my own men who have brought this upon you." He sighed, disgust filling his tone. "A scouting mission – nothing more, nothing less. Asgardian Soldiers are the best trained militants in all the nine realms, they do not make mistakes…well, until yesterday.

"The high council of Asgard has been scouting the stars relentlessly for months, now – they search for a planet, isolated and distant, to house our most dangerous threats. After…After Loki escaped, and had access to so many weapons, so many _avenues for evil."_ It was hard to miss the sadness cloaked behind Thor's anger. His brother was still a sore subject, even though he had been dead now for almost two years. "My council has been searching for a lone, inhospitable region to keep our strongest foes under lock and key with nothing but the planet itself as their prison. After ages of searching and venturing, we thought we had finally located a cluster of orbiting bodies that would suit our needs, so far from Asgard it was on the edge of almost every chart we had. I sent a battalion of my finest scouts to map the terrain and send back a full report. As their leader, I assume full responsibility for what happened next."

Fury was visibly on edge. "Would you care to share with the class?"

"Just tell him what you told us, Thor." Nat was looking at him with a rare expression of sympathy. Thor had never been one to hide emotions, and the pain on his face made them all shift uncomfortably.

"They went deep – deeper into the planet than I had expected. I suppose they were just being thorough, but…they found…something. Something which I had long believed to be a myth…a legend. They should have recognized, they should have _thought longer and harder_ but they did not, and now we find ourselves at an impasse, my friends. They took a relic – an ancient pendant. It is known as the _Brísingamen._ In your tongues, it means _the giver of fire_."

"No offense, buddy," Tony coughed quietly from the other side of the table. "But what does a necklace have to do with this? With Freyja?"

Thor took a deep breath. "Because that _necklace_ as you call it _belongs to her._ It is said that when Freyja wears the Brísingamen, she is cloaked in ethereal beauty and insurmountable strength. And without it, she becomes…another creature entirely. Just like the natural order of the universe, there is a dark and light. As I told you before, Freyja is two sides to a coin – passion and love, but flipped, she is darkness and death. That pendant is the light side of her being. Her celestial form cannot be balanced without it, and now that it is no longer in her presence, she will succumb entirely to darkness. She is a shadow – a dweller of the dark."

"She sounds like a bedtime story." Huffs Steve, ever practical. "This is something to scare kids into behaving."

Thor's words were like ice, and the team would never forget the look in his eyes when he spoke next. They had never seen him so shaken.

"It is not just the children who should be afraid, Captain. We should all be very afraid."

Steve bristled. "Yah, but what do _we_ have to fear? Earth has no part in this fight."

Very slowly, Thor turned, reaching deep into his cloak. He pulled out a small satchel, and began pulling the strings, unfolding leather wrapping after leather wrapping. The whole team held their breath, silently dreading that their growing suspicions were about to be confirmed.

With a final reach into the bag, he withdrew a hand to reveal an ornate pendant, glistening with silvers and golds and immaculately cut fire opals. Everyone's jaw dropped. Guilt washed across Thor's face.

"You do, now."

The room erupted.

Tony looked bewildered, a string of sarcasm erupting from his mouth about how "it's time we had another space war, he was getting bored watching videos of himself on YouTube from the last one". Tash's only tell was the way her hands tightened swiftly around her pistols. Barton jumped from the table, pacing, but never leaving his partner's side, cursing like a sailor. Fury's rage didn't even try to be silent, full of accusations and political whiplash and vigorous rubbing of his bald head. Maria Hill, walking past in the hallway, rushed in, took one look around, and backed out without a word. Steve was pointing and gesticulating at Thor, a mix of anger and betrayal clear in his eyes. The room was ripe with testosterone and concealed panic.

"DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?" Fury's voice rose above the rest in a tidal wave that crested and crashed over Thor, only amplifying the turmoil in his mind.

"OF COURSE I DO!" The Asgardian bellowed in return, effectively silencing the rest of the team.

"I, more than any of you, know the consequences of my actions. Which is why-" he stood, "-I have come to warn you and lend you aid. I have brought this new threat to your realm. My father grows sickly - Asgard is too weak to deal with a threat such as this – but I believed Midgard to be capable. It is my duty to help you vanquish Freyja, and on my honor, I shall not fail you."

"You better not." Director Fury's voice was low and dark. He held eye contact with the Asgardian for a plat second more, and mutual understanding rang true. There was a job to be done.

"Alright, Avengers. You've got work to do."

* * *

The Team had, from Thor's approximations, less than 36 hours before Freyja tracked her pendant to Earth. For the rest of the day after that briefing, the Avengers lay sprawled in various positions around Stark tower, reading everything they could get their hands on concerning Ancient Norse Folklore. Thor, of course, found this quite amusing, and very frequently in their studies, he would interrupt the silence with a shout laughter or indignance when a story was greatly exaggerated. Jane Foster was on call from Nevada, alerting the team to any sort of inter-dimensional anomalies. If an Einstein-Rosen Bridge opened anywhere on the planet, Jane would know.

As the crisp November dusk settled over Manhattan, Agent Romanoff cleared her throat in the living room – it was the first sound he had made all day.

"Thor?" She called.

He looked up from his book with a kind smile. "Yes, shield maiden?"

"This book says that Freyja's pendant makes her irresistible to men, but what about women?" The whole team raised their heads from their books; the vast majority of them being male, the notion had never crossed their minds.

"Like a siren?" Bruce cut into the conversation from his screen in the study. He was in Nevada working in a radiation lab with a Doctor Hank Pym, but he had agreed to lend the team a hand. At Nat's words, he had lifted his nose out of his eBook and perked at the chance to assist. His hair was rumpled and his shirt needed desperately to be ironed, but since he looked like this most days, there was nothing out of the usual.

Thor's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "What is a siren, good Doctor?"

"Sirens," Bruce stretched his neck, "are mythical creatures, featured most heavily in Greek and roman literature, though their legends have extended far past the faiths that created them. They are nymphs – water nymphs, like…" he searched for the word, absentmindedly pushing his glasses up his nose. "Like evil ocean fairies. They would sing to sailors, luring the men into danger. The ships would crash against rocks and kill everyone on board; or the men would dive into the depths trying to catch the sirens, and they would drown. Fictional, of course, but the principle is the same."

Thor digested this information, and then turned back to answer Widow's question. "The book is only half correct, Lady Natasha. While Freyja's charms can be magically based, I highly doubt that she will attempt such a thing during our confrontation." He thought more deeply. "However, should it come to that, you, milady, would be safe. Not because her magic won't work on you, but rather simply because Freyja preys upon what she assumes to be attraction. She cannot create a feeling – only amplify it."

Thor nodded pensively, and Tony piped up from his spot on the kitchen counter where he was scribbling down notes and eating an enchilada. "So, you're telling me," he swallowed. "That Widow is immune to sexy Freyja? What about Dark Freyja?"

Bruce marked his page and leaned forward. "Hmmm, I don't think Dark Freyja will be trying to seduce anyone, Tony, not by what Thor has told us. It's only once we return her pendant to her that we are at risk from her…womanly wiles." Nat snorted in the background.

"So that's the plan, then." She stood. "You all convince her not to kill everyone, we return her necklace, and I make sure none of you get seduced by a goddess." She turned to Clint. "Especially not you." Her tone was playful, but they all knew that she wasn't kidding.

"Babe, I already get laid by a goddess!" Barton wrapped his arms around her waist and gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "Almost every night, actually - sometimes twice on Tuesdays-"

"CLINT!" She slapped him roughly on the cheek, genuinely indignant, but he sniggered. Tony pretended to gag on his snack and Steve turned about six shades of scarlet from his position at the kitchen table. Thor just grinned like a child, jigging his eyebrows at Clint. The archer made the mistake of winking back at the Asgardian, only earning himself another slap.

Nat got up and strode to her room. "I'm taking a shower – I need to cleanse myself of your collective stupidity." Barton's smile fell.

"I am invited?"

 _SLAP!_

* * *

The team packed their go bags and loaded up the SUV to drive to SHIELD headquarters. Their orders were to spend the night in the Quinjet Bunker so that they would be ready for takeoff at a moment's notice.

Clint and Tony grabbed the top bunks first, but it was soon decided that this was a terrible idea because they would be dropping things on everyone all night and nobody would get any sleep – so they were forced to take the two adjoining cots at the far end of the hangar. Bruce and Nat snagged the lofted beds, instead, and Thor and Steve - who were too heavy to be on the top bunks, anyway – settled into the lower ones.

They were all hoping for a few good hours sleep before the alarms went off, but it had been hardly an hour with the lights shut off that Tony Stark's phone went wild with messages from a Dr. Jane Foster. Soon, sirens echoed violently in the hangar, and the Quinjet was roaring to life. Without a word, the team was changed, packed up, and boarding the aircraft. Coordinates were locked and loaded. Freyja had touched down on Earth in the southern Yukon Territory, Canada.

The Avengers took to the sky.

* * *

 **BACK TO PRESENT**

* * *

It appeared that, luckily, their arrival had yet to be noticed. The forest was dark and old, and even Tony would admit that it was creeping him out. The woods, in combination with the freaky energy signatures emanating from the epicenter of Freyja's arrival, were giving him the heebie-jeebies.

The rocks here were sharp, with no bushy moss to gentle their appearances. The terrain was scarred and jagged, with steep cliffs rising around scraggly outcroppings of prehistoric pines. The moon painted the waterfalls in the distance a cold silver, and the white puffs of everyone's breath seemed to be the only sign of life around them.

It was too quiet.

They walked for several more minutes in complete silence until Steve, from the front of the march, raised his hand to stop them. Shuffling ceased immediately. With a series of well-rehearsed hand signals, he initiated phase 1 of their plan. Thor nodded, pulling the pendant from the satchel at his side and handing it to Natasha. Agent Romanoff looked cool and collected, as usual, but it wasn't Nat who Tony was worried about – it was Clint.

The apprehension on Hawkeye's face was well-hidden to anyone who didn't know him, but to his Avengers family, it was obvious that he was nervous. Tony could understand well enough. If he was sending Pep into a situation like this by herself, well, they'd have to tie him down.

Nat gave a nod, and Steve responded with a reassuring huff. He signaled for the march to continue in phase 2 formation. Half of the party went left, half went right. They would have the clearing circled when Tash made her big entrance.

As a unit, the team crept forward, making the diameter of their circle smaller and smaller. Inside the Iron man helmet, silent alarms were plastered on the screen – energy readings were spiking off the charts, gamma radiation was leaking violently, and natural forces were warping.

"Cap, Tony whispered. "The scanners are going nuts. Hell, even the gravity in this place is lighter…"

"Affirmative." Unease was seeping into Steve's stomache.

The team continued their silent creep forward, and as they did, they could see the wisps of light and luminescence emanating from the clearing ahead. But this wasn't a chipper light. This was a heavy shine, a glow that fell short of beauty. It was one of dark reds and fierce blacks – a dark _so dark_ that it looked as if it would swallow the night whole. Each team member crouched behind bushes and trees, remaining perfectly still. If they blew Tash's cover, they were all doomed.

"Phase three is go." Steve whispered into their earpieces.

Per the plan, they all peeked into the clearing to establish their visuals.

What they saw was beautiful in the most horrifying sense of the word.

It was a woman – that was plain and clear to see – but it…it _wasn't._ Her body was a dark mass of featureless night. She was a black hole with a mouth and hair, as if all the light in the heavens belonged to her and she was taking it back. Stunningly high cheekbones framed a face that held no semblance of her ancientness, yet carried the weariness of a figure who had seen too many millennia. She was old and wise and strong and terrifying, only a faint glow even giving her form definition in the pitch black of the Yukon Pine Shade. The moon almost seemed to retreat in her very presence. She was intimidating, she was blackness, she was death, she was ferocity, she was powerful – she was a goddess.

"Holy shit." Tony's words were hardly a whisper, but there message was clear.

"Same." Barton breathed into his mouthpiece.

God knows how she did it, but as soon as Steve's uncharacteristically nervous voice came over the comm system and heralded in Phase 4, Natasha rose steadily to her feet and walked slowly and carefully out of the tree line. Barton almost moved to stop her, but Thor must have clamped the archer's mouth shut, because all they heard were muffles and angry whispers before the line quickly fell silent.

Earth's mightiest Heroes watched with intense apprehension as Black Widow walked, blazing pendant outstretched in her hands, fearlessly towards the enemy. Freyja's head snapped to her immediately, piercingly bright amber eyes a startling contrast to the darkness. The goddess let her gaze settle on the necklace in Nat's hand, and she let out a gruesome and bloodcurdling howl, furious in her heavenly ordinance. Like a dark cloud, the woman whisked herself, traveling like smoke, right to where Natasha stood, hovering above her at ten feet tall.

"Freyja," Nat's voice didn't break once. Clint felt his chest swell with pride. "Freyja, Midgard wishes to return your pendant to you. It was unintentionally taken from you. Please accept it and leave this realm."

Thor nodded along from the sidelines. She was delivering it exactly as they had practiced. She needed to lull Freyja into believing they were here to pacify, not contain a threat. Once Freyja was vulnerable, the team would strike. At first, Steve had raised the obvious question: what if Freyja takes the necklace and leaves in peace?

 _Thor had looked at him like an exhausted teacher may look at a pupil. "My Captain, do you think I would have brought Freyja here if I believed she might leave Asgard in peace in the first place? Everywhere she goes, there is bloodshed. She will fight. We have but one option."_

 _With this, the team watched as Thor withdrew second item from his satchel. A shimmering steel bracelet cuff, beautiful in its simplicity. When Thor placed it in his hand, however, it began to glow along invisible lines, etching patterns of light across the shiny metal. Tony recognized them immediately._

" _Aren't those the same voodoo-Asgardian sigils on your hammer?"_

 _Thor's mouth twitched up in amusement. "Yes, Anthony, this bracelet is made of the same material as Mjolnir, but it was forged by high priestesses of Asgard many, many millennia ago. This cuff binds any magic, preventing the wearer from casting any spell or enchantment. It cannot be taken off by the captive, only by its captors." He turned to Agent Romanoff. "Milady, when you have lured Freyja close enough to take the necklace, you must slip this onto her wrist. It will leave her completely magicless, and completely mortal. However, she is still an incredibly powerful being – even without her sorcery. If it comes to a battle, we still may not best her. It is imperative that you succeed - and quickly. She cannot know our intentions, or she will kill us all with the flick or her hand." Tash had nodded solemnly, along with the rest of the team. If anyone could do this, it was her._

Now, back in the field, Barton could just make out the glint of ancient steel in the back loop of Natasha's utility belt. He only hoped that she could complete the mission without getting herself hurt. The whole scene was making him sick to his stomach.

Slowly, like an animal approaching food from a hunter's hand, Freyja's hands came up, dancing around the pendant in the Russian's hands. She was captivated by the sight of her lost jewels, and she seemed almost reverent of them, unwilling to touch them just yet.

"C'mon…just a bit closer…" Steve's was urging in hushed tones. They were all on the balls of their feet, ready to sprint out at a moment's notice. Freyja's hands got closer to Natasha's. How the Russian wasn't shaking in her boots, Tony would never know.

"Closer….just a few more inches….just one more hair…"

 _Silence._

"NOW." Steve's command was almost too slow for Natasha's reaction time. In less than a blink of an eye, her fingers nimbly withdrew the silver cuff, producing it and slamming it home, watching with pure satisfaction as it slotted over Freyja's wrist.

Freyja howled, completely outraged, and raised her hands to Nat, open palmed, casting a god-knows-what spell that probably would have turned her into a pinecone or Jell-O or…or nothing.

Nothing happened, and Tony let out a whoop from the tree line as Freyja visibly panicked and tried again. Barton let out a breath and felt a million pounds fall from his shoulders as Nat retreated toward their cover.

Thor and Steve intercepted Nat and kept moving forwards toward the screeching Alien as she pulled desperately at her wrist. Barton met Widow halfway, quickly checked her over for himself, and the two of them jogged the rest of the distance together to join their teammates. Tony took to the sky, hovering around the clearing, guns pointed straight at the target.

Now was her chance to be cooperative.

"Freyja!" Thor bellowed, standing with his shoulders squared and his face even. He was addressing her as his captive, yes, but there was still a respect there.

"Thor…" She spoke for the first time. "How charming to see you, after all these years." The sound of it had goosebumps running down everyone's spines. Her voice was like…like drowning. It was cold and absolute, dark and consuming, but almost…ensnaringly peaceful.

"Freyja," Thor remained tall. "You came here with evil intentions. You came for battle, and you have been bested. We will return the Brísingamen, but you must go in peace. Leave Midgard, it has no quarrel with you, nor you with it."

Freyja gazed down at her wrist, almost pouting. "If you have no quarrel with me, Thor Odenson, then why trap me so?"

Thor gave a bitter grin. "We both know, Freyja, you came here not for peaceful conversation. Now, take your talisman and leave, and when you are clear of this realm, I will recall the bracelet that traps you and you may return to peaceful solitude where you will not again be disturbed." His eyes were storm clouds. "Do we have deal?"

The goddess gave a dramatic sigh, flipping her raven locks. "I suppose that we do,"

Thor nodded. "Milady Romanoff, if you would be so kind."

Natasha wordlessly moved towards the goddess. She held the necklace at an arm's length. Clint stiffened visibly and tightened his fingers around the arrow he had notched and ready in his bow.

The goddess' hand, black as night, wisped and floated down through the air and almost tickled the silver and gold intricacies before grasping the pendant in her willowy fingers. Almost immediately, she began to change.

Her silhouette changed from its tall and dark length to more human, shrinking in height but not in stature. Color invaded her features, like paint being splashed onto a blank canvas. Her straight and regal nose became visible against the rest of her face – her radiant bronze skin and striking green eyes popped. A natural blush settled on her cheeks, and her arms and legs filled with smooth and silky flesh tones. Her black drapery became shimmering metal and vibrant pink silken robes. She exuded sexuality and confidence, but there was an heir of danger there – a sense of uncertainty and wildness that not even a necklace can contain.

She heaved a great breath, and the very trees around the clearing seemed to quiver. Her long red hair, wavy and thick, framed the calculating expression on her face.

"Much…much better." This Freyja – her voice was a wind chime, trickling through the breeze and the mountains with a strong allure. Everything about her was full of life.

Natasha had to physically slap Tony on the arm for him to realize his jaw was hanging open. A quick glance to even Steve showed that he was in the same state of awe. Barton was a lost cause altogether, drool spilling from the corner of his mouth. Nat gave him an especially hard slap.

Thor never once lost his stoic expression. "Milady Freyja, now, per our agreement – if you would be so kind…leave Midgard and do not return. When you have returned to your realm, I will summon the bracelet and you will be freed."

Freyja flipped her hair causally over her shoulder, watching it shimmer with a light that seemed to be emanating _from_ her, not reflecting. She absentmindedly fastened the necklace around her neck, letting the fire opals and ambers drape sensually across her cleavage. Tony had to physically avert his head. He was getting distracted.

Freyja turned to the group, halting her vain strokes. "Oh, my dear Thor. How… _big…_ you've gotten," she gave a flirtatious giggle, running her fingertips across the Norseman's chest, circling him slowly. "The last I saw you, you were naught but a child running at your father's feet. Oh how the millennia pass…and oh, how kind they were to the both of us…" she trailed her fingers across his shoulders, daring to dip her hand down his back and across his chest. Without a word, Thor grabbed her wrist roughly in his, halting her touch.

"Enough, Freyja."

Her lips puffed out slightly in a pout. "Oh, Thor…Too much like Oden, I see. All work, no pleasure." She sighed wistfully. "Too bad. We could have had fun." She straightened up, her eyes colder than before. She slowly passed her gaze over each member of the team, all standing in a ready formation, braced for a fight.

"Very well. I will leave Midgard post haste."

Thor was visibly relieved. "Thank you, Freyja, for your mercy. I am very pleased this did not come to violence."

But that's when Freyja laughed, an icy tinkling sound, and a chill ran down everyone's spine.

"I will leave Midgard post haste, _Little Prince._ " She punctuated her next words with a sickening sweetness. "But only after I have killed each and every one of you."

There was a moment of silence, but it spoke volumes.

Before Tony could even raise his weaponry, Freyja's arm was flying towards Thor. He didn't have a second to react before a powerful backhand struck him and sent him flying into a tree. He shook himself off and rose to his feet, roaring. Clint was notching bolts and firing immediately, rolling towards the tree cover, trying to get a good vantage point to neutralize the threat. The fight had gone from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.

Tony was firing repulsor after repulsor, but Freyja was fast – too fast. Even without magic, she had all the combat skills of Asgard's finest warriors and eons of training. She was a true Valkyrie – an Alien of ancient age who was several planes above human ability. Widow fired round and after round as well, and though she never missed, the shots bounced off of Freyja's armor with sparks accompanied by cries of outrage from the disillusioned goddess. The silver gauntlets on her forearms shielded any shots from her face as she dodged them with impossible reaction times. Her eyes were aflame in fury and menace.

With a roar, Freyja charged Tash as the Russian scrambled to reload. The fresh clip had just clicked into the Glock and Romanoff was raising her weapon – but the alien was quicker, and in an instant, Tash was flying through the air. Clint's blood ran cold as ice as he watched Freyja strike her in the chest with the force of an ancient queen. Before the archer's horrified eyes, his lover flew through the air, wrapping around a pine tree with a sickening thud. The crack echoed through the clearing as her skull connected with the unforgiving petrified wood.

"NOOOOO!" Clint cried, his mouth dry and heart beating wildly. Hawkeye scurried straight across the battlefield, narrowly dodging flying shields and repulsor blasts by pure luck. He slid the last few feet on his knees, cradling Natasha's head in his lap as a gash on her forehead trickled freely. Panic welled in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow it down. He needed to get her to safety. Emotions could be dealt with after.

Tony, who desperately wanted to fly over and help despite the raging Asgardian in the clearing, watched as Clint signaled to him. Barton would find cover for Tash and return to the fight as soon as he could. Tony nodded clearly and sharply. Then turned his attention back to trying to land a _single goddamn shot on this bitch._

Tony registered Hawkeye cradle Widow in his arms and take off back toward the direction of the quinjet. There was no telling how long he'd be gone, though Tony knew Clint would hurry as best he could.

 _Let's keep the birthday girl occupied for now._

Tony swooped in low, clipping Freyja on the shoulder with the suit while she was distracted by a blustering Thor. She cried out in annoyance, but he banked a hard left and hit her on her other side with just as much force. These shots wouldn't kill her, but they would hurt – and if she can hurt, she can bleed. If she can bleed, she can die.

Hopefully.

The only problem is that Freyja _knows_ that she is mortal. If she felt invincible – if she had her magic back, she wouldn't be on the defensive. She would open herself up to attack, expose her vulnerabilities under the pretense that her magic made her impenetrable.

All Tony needed was a clear shot.

It hit him like a ton of bricks.

It was a stupid idea. Completely reckless, improbable, unlikely to succeed…stupid, dangerous, moronic…half-baked… and it was genius.

"BLONDIE!" Tony shouted over the comm system. Steve, on the other side of the clearing, battling away, nodded that he could hear.

"Cap, I need to take off Freyja's bracelet. We need to unlock her magic!"

You know what? Now the he said it out loud –

"ARE YOU MAD?" The Asgardian prince roared from his front, startling even Freyja, but the fight continued smoothly. Tony spat out the rest of his idea.

"Look Freyja's "magic" is based _in science_ – telekinesis! She manipulates waves and magnetic fields. That's all her magic is! That's how she fights. If we can give Freyja her magic back, we can lure her into a false sense of security. The iron man suit can resist magnetic fields to a certain degree if I throw all the power into the subsystems. I take off her bracelet, we fight, I charge her, and slap on the bracelet again with a full force attack that lays her out right as she assumes mortality. WE can't keep fighting her like this. I'm being wasted! She's a goddamn ninja warrior, the suit isn't built for this kind of hand to hand bullshit. I can't get off a clean shot and she's too damn fast to isolate. Steve, I need a gauntlet pass - A _Hail Mary_."

Captain America was throwing his shield, dismally watching it miss its target by a hair every time, and getting a goddess-punch to the shoulder in return. Tony cringed in sympathy as Captain America went to one knee with a wheeze. Just as Freyja was about to land a second crunching blow, Thor grabbed her from the side and those two reengaged in their own alien duel. Exhaustion was written across every Avenger's face – but Freyja looked like she was getting bored.

"Dammit, Stark." Steve resigned. "Do it…just don't mess up. That's an order."

"Me? Make a mistake? You might want to sit down, Cap, I think you're unwell." Tony's retort was witty, but hollow. They all knew the stakes.

Stark turned and returned to the fight. The battle had taken them on a wild ride, and the thunder of the falls was closer than ever. The trees croaked in the bitter winds at the top of the cliffs and the night was clouded and dark. Tony charged the goddess with an ostentatious cry.

You can imagine Freyja's surprise when she braced herself for the flying metal suit and instead was met by a hand wrapping around the only thing keeping her enemies safe from her magic. Stark had that bracelet off in record timing, spinning away to avoid her downward strike.

In his head, he accredited such nimble fingers to his years of experience removing bras with one hand.

"Wha…? You…You fools!" She laughed, unbelieving that freedom had come so easily. The depth of her laughter melded with the rush of the waterfall nearby as the river tumbled down the hundred yard drop. Freyja brought her arms up, and Tony watched with newfound uncertainty as sparks fell from her finger tips. She shot a hand out, muscles tensed, and clenched her hand. Immediately, Steve and Thor let out shouts of pain and were both immobilized. Stark's eyes grew big as his teammates were lifted into the air, struggling against invisible bonds.

"You've doomed your friends, Man of Iron." She tsk tsk-ed. "Such pity is this, and all for naught."

"Oh, no, madam." Tony's retort was sauntering. "For the woe is all yours."

He took to the sky, circling the three below and lining himself up as best he could. He eyed the waterfall behind her. All he had to do was hit her hard enough to send her flying over the edge and everything would be fine. The height of the drop was 300 feet, and if she descended at 9.8 meters per second per second without any velocity in the horizontal then her descension rate would be approximately-

Tony hesitated. The flight time wouldn't be enough to restart his operating systems. If all his juice got put into resisting the magnetic fields, he would need 6.8 seconds to restart JARVIS and have power rerouted back to the repulsors and life support systems. In conclusion…He would hit the water too.

 _No, there is always another way! Maybe I just did the math wrong._

But he was Tony Stark. He never did the math wrong.

Tony shot a look at Steve and Thor. They were struggling, getting pranced through the air like puppets, crying out in pain against the crushing force compacting their ribs. His glare turned to Freyja, who taunted him from the ground as she displayed her prowess, ignorant of the split second decision Tony had just made.

But "split second" maybe wasn't the right adjective. It was a decision that Tony had made immediately. It was the decision to protect his friends above all else, and whatever situation he was in, the choice would always be the same.

"JARVIS, when I give the word, I want every drop of juice to be put into the anti-molecular stimulation subsystems. Particulate ions, wave frequency disruptor – the whole package, got it?"

"But, Sir, If I may-"

"No, pal. No you may not."

"Yes, Sir."

Tony shouted down to the goddess from his vantage point in the sky. "HEY MADAM?" Iron Man raised his helmet, letting the cool breeze run across his sweaty face. He locked eyes with Thor and Steve, and when they saw the look on the engineer's face, they paused in their struggles.

"Stark?" Steve wheezed out quietly.

Tony mustered up all the courage he could and gave them the ole-razzle-dazzle Anthony Edward Stark trademark grin.

They saw right through it.

"STARK, DO NOT!" Thor cried. He was cut off by a fresh wave of pain as Freyja's magic squeezed harder.

"SILENCE!" She bellowed, her eyes dark. She gave a hooded stare that filled Tony with hatred. He pictured Natasha, lying half dead on the forest floor. He let the cries of his friends from below reverberate in his skull. He allowed himself to fill with vengeance. And he let it out with a battle cry fitting for his enemy – and his audience.

"AHEM!" Tony gave the boys one more soft look, and then locked eyes with Freyja. "NOW JARVIS!"

He charged through the sky, swopping low and heading in hot on a collision course.

Tony felt the power draining from his repulsors, but he held his hand out strongly with the bracelet firm in his grasp. He had mere seconds to send them both over the edge, and by God, he would not fail.

Freyja waved her hand at him, and he felt the suit shudder, but it didn't change course. Her face fell from confident to confused to terrified as her repeated efforts did nothing to slow him down. The suit was glowing hot and coming in with enough force to crash through a brick wall. His sensors were locked on. His particle disruptors created a bubble of magnetic infrequency. The closer he got to her, the less power she had. She dropped to her knees in weakness and fright, and Tony watched in relief as Thor and Steve fell to the ground, gasping for air. Freyja roared as Tony leveled out a mere twenty yards away. There was no dodging this.

"I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU, MADAM!"

Ten yards. Tony held out his hands.

"DOTH MOTHER KNOW YOU WEARITH HER DRAPES?"

And with that, Tony Stark hit Freyja with all his strength, her powers useless as the bracelet fastened securely over her wrist and the two opponents went flying. The pair struggled in the air, Freyja punching and wailing. Through the suit, Tony could feel metal denting under her strength and his skin being sliced and bruised. He ground his teeth as not to cry out, and with a final burst, the suit sent them over the edge of the falls. Tony ignored the blinding pain as Freyja punched at his exposed face, feeling his vision black out and blood fill his mouth. The hit was so direct that his body went slack, and his grip on the Asgardian loosened. She fell next to him, wailing and clawing at the air, but nothing was there to stop her fall. Nothing was there to stop his, either.

In a matter of seconds, Tony watched the water coming up to meet them. The hundred yard gap closed in the blink of an eye, and the mist swallowed Freyja's yells – while the roaring falls surrounded Tony.

He closed his eyes. His body hit the water.

Tony Stark's world went black.

* * *

"TONY!"

Steve Rogers was at the edge of the cliff, shouting hoarsely into the falls. He was coughing, clutching at the broken ribs that he could already feel were mending themselves. Thor was hunched over at this side, desperately gazing into the churning black water. The fall was of epic proportions. If it hadn't been for the suit, Tony would have been killed by the force of the drop.

"Where is he?" Steve was on edge. Tony should have flown up by now, completely unscathed, laughing about how ridiculous they both looked worrying like mother hens on the side of a cliff. He should be up here doing midair pirouettes and insulting someone.

So where the hell was he?

"STARK!

Sure, it had been reckless to do what he had done, but when _wasn't_ Stark reckless? Honestly, as the Team Leader it was a happenstance that Steve had just come to accept and utilize. Unpredictability was oftentimes an ally for the Avengers, and nobody was as predictably unpredictable as Tony.

Thor's brow was furrowed on his broad face. "Something is amiss, good captain. I fear Stark is in trouble."

"No…No it just doesn't make any sense. He flew over the edge, we SAW the bracelet go on Freyja's wrist…there's no magic to threaten him with, no power that she had over him to prevent him from flying back up. It...It doesn't make sense." Steve didn't lift his eyes from the obscuring mist.

"What truly makes no sense is how he got so close to her." Thor said it lowly, suspicion clouding his features. "No man poses a threat to her, yet despite Freyja's best efforts, our Man of Iron dove directly at her. What you would call a… _Hail Mary,_ yes?"

"No, Stark told me he could disrupt the magnetic fields of something or other with a thing that his suit does and…it…it was scientific, alright? He said he could jam her signals. He said the suit could do it, that it would require some rerouting but JARVIS could get it done in no time and that the suit would –"

Steve stopped, realization hitting him in the gut. "The suit."

"Captain? What ails-"

Steve shot from the ground, ignoring his protesting chest and spoke frantically into the comms, ordering Barton to finish strapping Natasha into the medical unit and get the quinjet to their exact coordinates as fast as possible.

"Captain! Why do you-"

"THE SUIT, THOR. HE CUT THE POWER TO THE SUIT. HE CAN'T FLY BACK UP – HE CAN'T EVEN MOVE. HE'S GOING TO DROWN."

Without a second of pause, Thor grabbed the straps of Steve's uniform and swung Mjolnir above his head. Sparks flew and the Asgardian launched them both flying into the crisp air. They swung out over the cliff and spiraled purposefully into the mist of the falls, each of them desperately searching. At twenty feet about the water, Steve tugged on his leathers and was released swiftly, diving into calmer waters. The cold was intense, but not unbearable. The water was churning, but thankfully clear and surprisingly clean. With his enhanced vision, Steve could see the bottom in the swiftly moving currents. He followed the river, taking breaths, frantically scanning debris at the riverbed and the banks. The quinjet arrived, roaring overhead. Barton must have flipped on autopilot, because in seconds, he was repelling down on a line, jumping into the water as well. Thor must have filled him in, because he wasted no time looking for explanations. He dove under and bobbed along with Steve, each praying for a glint of steel or a glimpse of shaggy brown curls.

Thor continued to patrol the air and keep watch, wishing for any movement other than the surfacing heads of Hawkeye and Rogers. Maybe a flash of metal crawling up onto the shore – or a gauntleted hand waving for help at the water's brim – but nothing came. Guilt weighed on him with more of a crushing force than anything Freyja could have conjured.

What had only been minutes passed like hours, and Steve felt himself struggling to keep his panic at bay. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. This wasn't supposed to be the plan. Everyone was supposed to live. Everyone was supposed to be fine. Instead, Tony was MIA, Natasha was unconscious, and Barton was probably in the process of getting pneumonia from an impromptu swim in a Canadian river. The feeling of failure was a bad taste at the back of the team leader's mouth.

"TONY!" They called, over and over again. They screamed it to the cliffs, they screamed it to the pines lining the shore, and they screamed it underwater where it turned to a shrill, muffled siren.

But nothing graced them with a response.

* * *

After almost thirty minutes, doubt was trickling into everyone's minds, although nobody would be the first to say it. Steve felt tears clawing at his eyes and a painful lump in his throat as he croaked out another strangled cry. His voice had gone hoarse ten minutes ago.

He took in the state of his team. Thor was unmoved, eyes intent in their search, pain splashed across his eyes. Barton was shivering, exhausted, and half dead at the shore - nose running and eyes leaking freely as he mourned his friend's fate and worried about the unconscious agent in the jet above. When he had gotten her to safety, he'd given her the once over, and knew that it could have been much worse. A nasty concussion, a broken collarbone, and a couple cuts and scrapes – all trivial to what may have been. But regardless to how relatively minor her injuries were in the wake of such tragedy, she still needed medical attention as quickly as possible. Steve had to think of Natasha, too.

A good captain never leaves a man behind.

But a good captain also does what is best for the team.

"Barton," Steve called. The archer immediately perked up, hope threatening in his eyes. Steve had to crush it. "Barton, I need a status report on Black Widow. Thor, return Hawkeye to the quinjet."

Barton clenched his jaw. "No, Steve. Dammit, man, I see what you're doing. No. I'm staying here until we find him. We are gonna find him, and when we do, he's gonna be okay and I'm gonna tell him he's a jackass and that he has the mentality of a five year old and he ages me ten years every time he puts me through this shit."

"Barton, that's an order. Go back to the quinjet, put on some dry gear, and give me a status report on Natasha."

"To hell with your orders, Steve." Barton was standing, his anger radiating off him in waves, almost warming the blue tips of his fingers. "He is my friend, too. And _when_ we find him, I will be here."

Steve had to do it. He had no choice.

"You mean _IF_ we find him."

Clint looked like he had been shot.

"Are you giving up on him?" His voice was a breathy intake of complete shock. "Are you fucking _giving up on him?_ After everything he has done for this team?! You, Steve rogers, _Mr. Goddamn America_ , are giving up on him?"

"Get back to the quinjet now Agent Barton." It took everything for Steve to remain stoic and not crumple at the absolute shattered look on Barton's face as he said these next words:

"He's gone, Clint."

Barton's face was filled with reproach – complete and utter disgust. He felt bile tickle the back of his throat, his eyes filling with tears. "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do." _No I don't._

"You can't mean that."

"I can mean it – and I do mean it. Now get back into the cockpit before I write you up for insubordination."

"You want to see insubordination?" The fiery shorter man stood, damp dirty blonde hair plastered to his clammy forehead. "I'LL SHOW YOU INSUBORDINATION. YOU SELFISH, GODDAMN FLAG WAVING, MOTHERF-"

" _Woah there, Featherface_. Don't bring…Wonderboy's mother into this…He has… enough childhood trauma to deal with… as it is."

The voice sounded terrible – waterlogged, half-dead, weak and trembling, but Christ, if it wasn't the best voice they had ever heard.

Clint spun around to the shoreline, knees almost giving out at the sight of a freezing cold, horribly battered Tony Stark limping lowly out of the water towards shore. Steve didn't even remember swimming in to meet him on land but the next thing he knew, his own boots were on solid river rock and his legs were running towards the engineer.

Clint was racing towards him from the other side. "Tony?! We thought you were dead!" The archer cried out between emotional breaths, half choking around his sobs of relief. Thor let out a victorious bellow and landed nearby.

"Thank God you're okay, Stark. Thank God you're okay," Steve was almost to him, repeating this more as a mantra for himself and his own shattered nerves than for Tony's benefit. "Crazy bastard, thank God you're okay…"

"Yah, well," the engineer tried to give a wisp of a laugh, and his breath wheezed. His left eyes was swollen shut and his lips were pale blue. His armor was dented in on itself, undoubtedly cutting skin, maybe cracking bone. His face was bloodied and his cheeks were dark and haggard. "I...I think ' _okay'_ might… be a bit…of an exaggeration, boys."

And before Steve could say another word, Tony Stark's eyes rolled back into his head and his knees buckled. He collapsed onto the river rock; the sound of his name being called frantically echoed away in his ears, muting out gradually until the whole world fell silent.

* * *

 **I can't thank you all enough, again. I'm happy to say I'm back for at least the next few weeks. Expect a part 2 to this one and some Tony!POV on what happened. I think we should be able to get through a few more letters in that time!**


	14. J for Jump Part 2

**J for Jump Part 2**

* * *

 **Enjoy this one, guys! thank you all for your reviews!**

* * *

" _Dammit, Anthony!" The man's moustache sat proudly in his stern upper lip, and his hair was combed back neatly without as much as a single hair out of place. The only sign of instability on his whole visage was the anger that shone in his dark brown irises. The bridge of Howard Stark's nose was pinched between his thumb and index finger on his right hand while his left hand sat sternly in his waistcoat pocket. Looking back at him with larger, more innocent versions of the same eyes, six year old Tony Stark sat on the floor of the bathroom pinching his own nose – not out of frustration like his father, but to staunch the crimson flow that trickled so readily down his pale and quivering chin._

" _Papa, I'm sorry but-"_

" _No, Anthony. No 'buts', no 'I'm sorry'. I told you to handle this crap with the other boys, didn't I? I gave you a job to do, and you couldn't do it. I don't have time to come to your rescue over every little thing, Tony!"_

" _Papa, there's three of them and they're so much bigger I couldn't even run aw-"_

" _DON'T." Howard's hand left his disappointed brow and shot out almost as if to deflect his son's next words. "Do not even try to tell me you ran away. Don't do it, son. We don't run away from fights." Howard crouched next to his boy, but not to give him comfort, only to stare him down. "Would Steve Rogers run from a fight?" Tony shook his head and tried to sniffle, but ended coughing on a little bit of blood that ran back down his sinuses._

" _That's right. No. Even if there was more of them, or they were stronger, Captain America would never run from a fight." He jabbed a calloused pointer finger into Tony's forehead. "We Starks have natural weapons – we have our brains. If you can't fight your way out – if you aren't strong enough - you need to think your way out."_

 _Tony only nodded, exchanging his soiled red tissue for a clean wad of toilet paper._

" _Yes, Papa."_

 _Howard Stark seemed to soften for a moment. He brought his hand up and gave a rough but paternal ruffle to his son's unruly brown curls. Howard sighed, closing his eyes for a moment._

" _Someday, Tony, you will be glad that I didn't swoop in and save you. In the end, son, you can only ever rely on yourself. That's the whole of it."_

 _Tony's eyes were glued to the Greek tile on the bathroom floor, but had he been looking up into his father's gaze, he would have seen a tired man with a tumultuous expression. Pride and sorrow mixed in with the refined facade of dignity and control. Howard was hurting for his son._

 _The moment passed all too soon._

" _Alright, boy. Let's get you cleaned up. Go find your mother – go on." He squeezed Tony's shoulder and pushed him off towards the downstairs kitchens where Maria would be overseeing preparations for Sunday dinner._

" _And Anthony?" Howard called after him. Tony turned to face his father at the top of the stairs._

" _I expect that internal combustion schematic completed and left on my desk in the study before you go to bed tonight."_

 _Tony gave a small but genuine smile, squeezing tighter on his bruised and battered nose. "It will be, Dad."_

" _Good. Now, off you go."_

* * *

"Wi' b', Dad…'promise…."

"Tony? Tony, talk to me, please! Barton – radio ahead to SHIELD medical, we're only twenty minutes out – tell them to prep two intensive care units."

"I….'promise…like…Cap'n…m'ica…be bra'….don'…run 'way…"

"Tony, Tony please you're not making any sense." Steve Rogers was cradling the man's head, suit helmet laying discarded at the floor of the quinjet that Hawkeye was pushing to extraordinary speeds.

Tony's face was a mess, and according to the basic x-rays JARVIS had taken in the quinjet, his left femur was bruised as well as a complete dislocation of his right elbow and shoulder. He had extensive damage to his orbital bones as well as a fractured left cheekbone. His body was riddled with gashes where crumpled suit spikes were slicing through skin and shallow muscle. He looked like he had just gone a round with half a dozen prize fighters.

Tony groaned again, muttering incoherently. Steve was going crazy with worry. Watching his teammate collapse like a sack of flour was painful on a good day – on this day, it had sent him over the edge. The soldier had been in hysterics loading Tony onto the plane, half of his time spent shouting in anger and the other half had him running his fingers through the engineer's bloody hairline begging him to wake up and tell them he was alright.

As if on cue, Tony's bloodshot eyes seemed to roll out of the top of his head and settle hazily on Steve's face, blinking out of sync. Steve recognized that Tony wasn't all there, and sucked in a shaky breath.

"Dammit, Stark! I told you to not mess up, didn't I?" Steve was hoping against hope that Tony was finally coming to, but Stark seemed completely lost. "I gave you an order, Tony! And you couldn't even follow something as simple as _don't make any mistakes._ "

"D…D't worry…Papa…"

The Captain's eyes got huge. His anger immediately faded.

 _Howard. He thinks I'm Howard._

"I din'…run 'way…I…"

"Hush, Tony, hush. I know. I'm…I'm sorry." Steve felt like his heart was being squeezed. "I know you didn't run away. You were so brave, Tony." The soldier's lips formed a sad grin. "Reckless, but brave."

"I…used m' head…I _thought_ … m'way out…." And Tony gave a lopsided smile which quickly turned into a moan as he stretched his swollen face. It took only seconds for Tony to slip back into the calm of oblivion, and Steve was almost grateful for it.

"Hawkeye, where are we on those medical units?"

Barton was flipping switches and preparing for landing, his face set in stone and his keen eyes hidden under sunglasses against the bright rays of the sunrise over the northeast American shore.

"SHIELD is prepared to take the casualties." Clint's voice hitched slightly on the last word, and to his left, Thor gave the archer a reassuring nod. The Norseman had flown in the quinjet for once to tend to Natasha while Steve tended to Tony. Halfway over the continent, the Russian had groggily woken up in enough pain that even she had sucked in a breath and let out a small mewl. Steve had injected her with a field dose of morphine and she had fallen back into a less fitful sleep.

Now it was Tony they were most concerned for. The engineer hadn't regained complete consciousness in over an hour, and they could tell by his pallor and his unsteady breathing that his condition was just getting worse. There was no real way to tell how much blood he might be losing – externally and internally. The soft tissue and bone damage was significant, but not life threatening. However, being left untreated for so long in combination with an obvious head injury and a threat of shock…let's just say nobody would be breathing easy until Tony was given the all clear from SHIELD medical.

The Manhattan skyline protruded noisily from the horizon. The glimmering gold of the skyscrapers in the morning light seemed to taunt the Avengers with their cheerful promises of a new day. The two injured comrades in the backseat were hanging by a thread while New York came to life before them, and that thought only had Barton pushing the quinjet faster.

* * *

Everyone knows the feeling of a limb falling asleep. When you've been sitting in the same position for too long and your leg starts with the pins and needles? Or when you hold your head in your palm for an extended amount of time and you get that tingling sensation in you pinky finger that feels like the physical embodiment of static noise on the TV?

Tony Stark still remembered the first time his leg fell asleep. He had been four years old, in an expensive cabin in the Adirondacks. His mother was always fond of skiing, and had convinced Howard to take a long weekend for a family vacation.

Tony had grown up in suburbia (when he wasn't in the hustle and bustle of the city, anway), and the woods were a new territory for the young boy. He was fascinated by the perpetual quiet, enthralled by the smell of the air, and captivated by the untouched snows.

But he was terrified of the insects.

The first one he saw when they parked in the drive was a hellish wood spider that had to be about six inches in diameter and faster than a lightning bolt. Tony had almost refused to get out of the car; Howard had to carry him into the cabin - albeit kicking and screaming over his father's shoulder any time the man walked too close to a pine tree.

So when four year old Tony's right leg fell asleep while he was drifting off to dreamland, you can be damned if he didn't start screaming right then and there.

" _BUGS! MAMMA, THERE'S BUGSES IN MY BED! THEY'RE CRAWLING UP MY LEGS! MAMMA HELP!" Tears welled in his chocolate eyes and rolled fat and wet down his chubby face as he bolted upright in bed, throwing back his fleece sheets and thick comforter. Tony kicked wildly, lifting up his pants leg on his imported pajamas, searching in vain for the creepy crawly culprits._

" _MAMMA, HELP ME PLEASE!"_

 _Maria Stark, a beautiful woman by any standard, had come sprinting into her sons room with her hair amassed in gaudy curlers and a pale fuchsia bathrobe. Her hands, nails a bright blood red per the era's fashion, flailed wildly along the wall of her son's room, desperately searching for the light switch._

" _I'm here, mio cucciolo, its ok, what's wrong, are you alright?!" Maria gathered her son into her arms and pressed his head against her warm chest. His sobs of fright turned into hiccups._

" _Mamma, I-I thought there were bugses on me. T-They made my legs go tingly a-and they hurted!" He sniffled, running the back of hand across his nose. Maria tsked tsked and grabbed a tissue from the bedside stand. She pressed it gently to his nose._

" _Blow, mio cucciolo." Tony did as he was told._

" _Now, let's take a look at these bugs, ok?" She rolled up his pants leg and saw nothing. "Sweetheart, there's nothing here. Were you dreaming, maybe? Did you actually see any bugs?"_

" _Non, Mamma, but I feel them. I STILL feel hem. My leg is_ _ **prickly,**_ _like when bugses crawls on you and walk all over your skin and stuff." Maria looked puzzled, and then realization hit her. She had to suppress an amused chuckle._

" _Oh, my brave boy. There are no bugs! Your little gamba just fell asleep!" Maria's heart ached for her baby, and she calmed him down by rubbing his little shins quickly with her hands, massaging the leg until it came back to life. She watched her sons face go from bereaved to confused to amazed._

" _Better, mio cucciolo?"_

 _Tony shrugged his little neck down into his collar, a little giggle twinkled through the air. "Better. Thanks, mamma." She reveled in his gap-filled smile._

" _Maria? What's going on? What's wrong with Tony?" Howard could be heard calling groggily from the Master Suite._

" _Nothing, Howard. Just a little scare!" She called back, then turned to her son, speaking quietly just to him. "But nothing my brave little Anthony couldn't handle."_

 _Maria pressed a kiss to her son's head._

" _I'll be right down the hall if you need me, Tony." She stood, her curvy frame in the doorway and her hand on the light switch. She stood, watching her son already begin to drift back to sleep._

" _I'll always be right here."_

That was the first time Tony had ever had that sensation, and it had been ages since he'd thought of it.

So, the fact that his brain was dredging up such old memories had to be a testament to what he was feeling now.

 _Everything was tingling._

Usually, Tony Stark would hear the word "tingling" and immediately make a dirty joke. But he only chose the word because there was no other term so apt to describe what was coming over his body in waves.

He felt like he was floating in static – a lost radio wave traveling lightyears away from the earth amidst transference signals and old radio announcements and satellite broadcasts. Nothing felt tangible, yet he could feel everything at once.

The only thing Tony Stark knew for certain is that he wasn't dead. He couldn't be. The tingling was odd, yes – but underneath it all, there was a thickly masked layer of pain that seemed to be curtained by the pins and needles. In this case, pain was a good thing. Pain meant that he was still inside a body - bruised and battered though it may be.

The static came in tides. Sometimes the pull was stronger, and those moments were scary; those were the times when he couldn't feel the pain at all, but he felt like he was being drained of something, losing…weight…losing a sense of _attachment_ , maybe. That was the only way he could figure to describe it. That feeling happened a lot more often at first, but now the pins and needles seemed to be evacuating, subsiding long enough for the underlying pain to shine through and his broken shell to make itself known.

Tony was an intelligent man – he knew that feeling the hurt was a good thing; but in all of us, there is a selfish side. The side that says we should give in; it's the side that says we should avoid the pain - and everything else that we avoid alongside it be damned.

 _Give up,_ it tells us. _Give in._

 _Hide from the hurting, run quickly so it doesn't catch you._

 _Run away._

But Tony had promised.

Starks don't run away.

* * *

"Barton? Barton! I think he's waking up!"

"Lady Natasha, Man of Iron is-"

"Yes, Thor, Thank you, I didn't damage my eyes."

"Nat, he is just trying to be h-"

"So help me god, Clint, if you tell me he's just trying to help one more time, you'll end up in the bed next to me."

"Or we could just share the same b–"

 _SLAP._

"Will you three please quiet down, Tony's going to hear you all bickering and _choose_ to return to his coma."

"Coma is being a bit melodramatic, Cap, dontcha think?"

"Are you calling me dramatic, Agent Barton?"

"Well, I- no, I just – well maybe a tad bit – it's more of a relative thing-"

"Relative to what, _Agent Barton."_

"Well, Nat, for example, is never, um, dramatic…"

"Clint, are you saying I'm unemotional?"

"No, baby, just that you never get, um, too…too excited."

Natasha could be heard sucking in a breath.

Tony figured now would be a good time to save the lone archer from the grave he was digging himself.

His throat felt like sandpaper and his face felt like he'd eaten pavement, but he did his best to form words. They were quiet, but they were there nonetheless.

" _Maybe, Featherface, because you've never given her much more than about 4 inches to be excited about."_

The room went wild. Steve was shaking his head, a deep blush running up his neck as Barton uproariously began defending his penis size – although the relieved and exhausted smile on the archer's face let everyone know he didn't give a damn how many times Tony insulted him. Natasha actually graced the team with a rare laugh, careful not to jostle her collarbone now that SHIELD medical had set her injuries. From his hospital bed, Tony watched Thor point at Clint, then to Tony, then back to Clint, all the while laughter booming from the Asgardian's throat.

Tony's face was so battered, he could hardly keep his eyes open because of the swelling, so he resigned himself to blindness in exchange for listening to his friends go on about the flight home and how many doctor's Steve had pushed against a wall in the first half hour of them landing. Tony made a point to ask Natasha how she was feeling, and though he couldn't see her face, he knew by the minutia change in her tone of voice that she was touched by his concern as well as the love of the rest of her teammates.

Tony Stark decided then and there that this was the best wakeup call he'd ever had.

* * *

The first few days back at Stark Tower had seen Thor, Clint, and Steve doting on their two injured teammates. Natasha required nothing more than the occasional nap, which she took quietly without any pomp and circumstance, or the quick cup of tea that she had no problem making herself. Clint would help her with her sling and making sure she didn't have to bend over to pick anything up. That was about the extent of her care.

Then there was Tony.

The swelling in Tony's face went down relatively quickly, and other than a few stitches to his nose and cheek, he looked almost normal again in about eight days. Bruises were fading to yellow and purple, his headaches were going away, and his vision was unobstructed. During that time, Tony did almost nothing but sleep and eat. Steve made sure he took his painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs, and sometimes, he would bring Tony ice to put on his fractured face. The doctors assured them that the bones would knit independently, and there would be no permanent deformities. Even his cheek was only going to scar to a bare minimum.

No, the problems started as soon as Tony was feeling better.

You see, Tony didn't have the energy or the pain tolerance to move head around for the first week. But when he healed, the technician was up and about with a fervor the team had never seen. The only issue was that his dislocated right arm was still healing and completely useless; and for an engineer, there was nothing more aggravating than not being able to work.

For his team, there was nothing more aggravating than having to listen to him complain about not being able to work.

"Steeeeeeeeeeve."

"What is it, Tony?"

"Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve."

"Tony, what do you need?"

"SteeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE."

"Tony don't do this again, pl-"

"STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

"…'M bored."

"…."

"Steve?"

"Don't talk to me. Ever. Again."

And then Tony would repeat the same shenanigans to Clint. Then to Thor, who never caught on to the game and would just get more and more frustrated as if the Midgardian had forgotten how to speak. Barton usually locked himself in Natasha's room where Tony dare not venture, Thor would fly out the window rather than be around him, and Steve would run on the treadmill for so long that Tony would just get tired _watching him_ and go take a nap for the both of them.

It was a rough time in the Avengers household.

But things changed at night.

Tony had been having nightmares.

He would get really loud and obnoxious right before bed, casually but too eagerly suggesting that the team stay up for one more episode, one more movie, or one more late night game of cards.

Nobody really caught on until one early morning Tony walked in to the kitchen with dark circles under his eyes and a serious five o'clock shadow. His clothes were messy and sweat stained and his hair was greasy and unkempt.

Steve had been making scrambled eggs, and at that point in the day, they were the only two people awake.

Unthinking, Steve had waved a hand in front of his nose with a joking smile. "Jeez, buddy, when was the last time you took a bath? You smell worse than Barton's cargo shorts!"

He hadn't been expecting what happened next.

"What?" Tony snapped, his eyes almost manic. "You think I don't know how to take a fucking shower? You think I can't do it or something?"

Steve had almost dropped his frying pan on the floor. "Wh-What? Tony why would you- buddy, I wasn't saying-"

"Don't call me fucking _buddy,_ Rogers. I know what you were saying, and you know what? This is a free fuckin' country and I take a shower when I want to, goddammit!" And Tony had turned on his heel and stormed back to his room, slamming the door shut.

That had been the first sign.

The next day, it rained miserably in New York – very uncharacteristically, due to how close it was getting to Christmas, but it had been a warm winter so far. Water cascaded down the all-glass sides of Stark Tower, pounding against the windows and filling the rooms with the rhythmic sound of a storm. The whole team had found it rather peaceful, actually…

Tony didn't come out of his room once.

Not for a meal, not to see Dummy, not even for the new Doctor Who episode Barton had recorded on the DVR – nothing. Steve knocked several times throughout the day, asking Tony if he was alright, if his arm was hurting him. He'd gotten the same type of snappy reply he'd received yesterday in the kitchen about people leaving him alone and letting him have some space. Steve had let it go as frustration from his pain and not being able to work.

It was two days later, when Tony was sitting slouched over a hot cup of coffee that Steve finally caught on.

The unwashed, overtired engineer had been staring into his mug when Barton had walked in, completely innocent, and put his dirty dish in the sink. The archer had made the mistake of opening up the faucet to fill the sink. Water flowed fast and free into the stainless steel basin.

Tony almost fell of his chair.

The Italian's eyes went crazy, and he shot up, startling both Steve and Clint.

"Tony, you good?" Barton eyed him cautiously.

"Yah-no-I just, I just remembered I left a – a soldering iron on in my, uh, room and I need to – yah- so I'll just be-" And he was gone, limping down the hallway as fast as his bruised and sore muscles would allow.

The two men watched him scurry down to his room like a frightened animal, and Steve looked at Clint in confusion. "What did you do….?"

"Beats me." The archer shrugged and hesitated, concern clouding his brow as he went to finish his dishes.

He shut off the sink, and Steve's eyes went wide. He reached a hand back to clutch the counter lest he fall over from the crushing blow of his own stupidity.

"Oh my god, Barton. The water."

"What…What about it?"

"The Water. Tony won't shower. He was a shut-in during the rainstorm. He can't be in the same room as an open tap. He _won't go near running water."_

Steve and Clint had both seen a good amount of PTSD in their day, but this was different – this was _Tony._ This was not something they expected from him – not that he wasn't allowed to be scared, just that…Tony Stark had had many a near death experience, and he'd never seemed emotionally traumatized before this.

"Something happened in the water that Tony isn't telling us," they agreed.

"And we need to know what it is."

* * *

"Tony?" Steve lightly knocked on the main door to Tony's bedroom suite. He heard a faint response that sounded like 'enter', but even then, he was hesitant.

Steve entered first, and the rest of the crew followed him, having been informed of the situation minutes before. Together, they'd come up with a rudimentary game plan.

"Tony," Natasha called out quietly. "Tony, we need to talk to you. It's about Freyja…and the waterfall."

From his position in the doorway, and even in the dim light, Steve could see Tony visibly tense. The engineer was laying dejectedly in his bed, covers pulled up to his ears, facing the wall away from his teammates.

"What about her?" His voice was strained.

"Tony…We know you're having problems sleeping. We know that you can't stand the sight of running water, either-" Tony flinched, "but we also know that the only for you to get better is to talk to us."

"Please, Anthony." Even Thor's voice was gentle. "We are your compatriots. You must trust us to support you. Many an Asgardian warrior has faced these dark times where the mind seems to betray you and fear overpowers all else. But please, my brother - even in the most dismal of days, your friends may offer sanctuary."

Steve looked in gratitude at Thor and gazed back upon Tony. The room was silent save for the engineer's strained breaths, and it didn't take a mastermind to tell that Stark was fighting back tears. Natasha made her way to his side of the bed and sat on the edge, careful not to disturb Tony's bandaged arm at his side.

She whispered gently to him in French, a shared language between the two. He whispered back, his voice choked and hoarse. The three men still standing in the doorway were at a loss in the conversation, but after almost ten minutes of start and stop Parisian from the engineer, they were startled when Natasha sucked in a breath. She asked him a question, followed by a long pause. She spoke again. She repeated the question. Finally, Tony muttered what sounded like "oui, oui" and began to slowly rise from his bed. He sniffled loudly and nodded at Natasha, who continued to coo at him tenderly in French, the way a mother would speak to her child.

Slowly, and somewhat painfully for the both of them, she helped him unbutton his filthy shirt and strip him of his shorts. Down to his underwear, she led him into the bathroom and gently sat him on the toilet lid while she continued to reassure him. Slowly, almost as if she were afraid to startle Tony, Natasha turned on the bathroom sink. Tony shut his eyes immediately and took deep breaths, but did not run from the room. Natasha tested the water in the sink to make sure it was comfortably warm, and then gently took his undamaged left hand and slowly placed it under the running water. Tony almost pulled back, speaking rapidly in French, his eyes pleading, but though Natasha did not force, she encouraged him on. Tony wiped at the cold sweat on his forehead but allowed her to continue.

Even slower than before, Natasha grabbed a clean hand towel from the counter and ran it under the water until it was saturated. She wiped the rag up and down Tony's arm and around his shoulder, then to the back of his neck. She tenderly dabbed around the bruises on his face and down his chest. She cleaned the rag when needed and exchanged the towel every once in a while, but she effectively gave Tony Stark a sponge bath.

The other three team members felt almost like they were intruding on an intimate and vulnerable moment, and had resigned themselves to standing outside the bathroom and simply waited for Natasha to be done. At one point, she had poked her head out and asked them to please throw Tony's clothes and linens into his hamper, have JARVIS start a load of laundry, and put fresh sheets and pillowcases on the bed. Magically, the three of them had figured it out as a team, and though Tony's new blue comforter didn't really go with the fresh olive pillowcases, the bed smelled clean and looked inviting.

Natasha came out, grabbed a fresh pair of boxers, and handed them to Tony, who was practically falling asleep in the bathroom from the stress of the past twenty minutes. She left him alone in the bathroom to save his dignity and put his own underwear on, and when he knocked quietly on the door, Nat took that as the signal that he was decent.

"Tony, êtes-vous prêt?"

"Yah, I'm ready…" Came his hushed reply. The team stood back as he walked out the bathroom. His hair was finally shampooed and combed back. His body was clean and his face was carefully shaved. His freshly starched boxers sat neatly on his hips and he had fuzzy socks on his feet, courtesy of Natasha (though by extension, courtesy of Clint's sock drawer).

"Merci," he kept whispering to Natasha. "Merci."

"Don't mention it," she finally responded in English, and the relief on the three other men's faces at being able to understand something made a smile play on Natasha's lips.

The Russian walked the engineer over to the bed and tucked him into his crisp sheets. His face visibly relaxed as he reveled in the cathartic sensation of being clean.

"If you have another nightmare, Tony, I'm right down the hall," Natasha muttered, stroking the Italian man's hair back from his face. "You are a very brave man, but you don't need to do this alone."

"…'m brave?" a playful smile ghosted Tony's face.

"Yah, you are. Don't let it go to your head, though."

"Promise….I won't…" Tony's eyes were already shut, his breathing already slowing down. He was on the verge of a two week caffeine crash.

"Now go to sleep. You haven't had a good rest in ages. Sleep, Tony."

"But…I…"

"No. Sleep."

"hmmm…'nks, Mamma…." And he was gone.

Natasha almost felt a lump in her throat, but years of training quenched it before it ever had time to come to fruition. Her heart ached for Tony and what he had told her, and she knew that it would take all of them to get him back to where he had been before – but they had made a good start tonight.

* * *

"Thirty minutes."

"That's how long you searched for him?" Natasha's green eyes were like ice.

"Yah, give or take. It was a little…fuzzy." Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

"In all that time, where did you look?"

"We checked everywhere we could think of." Barton crossed his arms. "We dove down, we scanned the river banks, we went up and downstream – there was no sign of him. Then, POOF, he just shows up walking on the river bank with a bashed in face."

"He came from the direction of the falls, milady. We had just searched that area nigh ten minutes before, hence the confusion when he simply appeared!" Thor gestured wildly to emphasize the _appeared_ portion of his renderings.

Natasha took a breath. "He was in the falls."

"No, he was walking from the direction of the falls, we just said-"

"No, Steve, I'm telling you what Tony told me. He was **in** the falls."

The men just looked confused. Natasha, ever blunt, just jumped right to the explanation.

"Freyja struck Tony in mid-fall. He had cut the power to the suit and couldn't pull up. This, we already knew." They all nodded. "What Tony told me was what happened after he woke up from the blow to the face." She coughed lightly. "Apparently, when Tony came to, he was pressed up against the cliff face of the falls, his right arm in the suit completely jammed in between two jagged, weathered rocks. A small edge of the waterfall was pouring over him so hard and so fast, he could hardly find the air to breathe, let alone call out for help."

Thor stood abruptly. "If Anthony lived, is there a chance that Freyja is still alive? This must be dealt with im-"

"Sit." Natasha was stone. Thor sat.

"To answer your question, Thor: No. Freyja is very much dead. Tony was a mere ten feet below where her mortal form had been impaled by the same type of rock outcropping he was jammed between – like stalagmites, but at the bottom of waterfalls. Freyja was completely run through, her blood apparently 'running down the rocks faster than the waterfall ran down the cliff'. Freyja had fallen further into the waterfall stream, and Tony was stuck fast, forced to watch as her body was literally torn apart by the force of the water….and some of it was thrown down onto him."

Steve shuddered, and Clint looked nauseous.

"That explains the aversion to the shower, then." The solider muttered under his breath.

Natasha continued. "He could faintly hear you all calling his name. He tried to call back, but nobody could hear him through the falls – his face was wrecked, JARVIS was offline, and he could hardly get a breath big enough between the sheets of water and…Freyja bits… running over his head. He thought he was going to drown."

"But…How did he…?"

Tash looked at the floor. "You've all seen his right arm."

She let the realization sink in.

"He…he did that to himself?"

"He had no choice." Thor said so quietly they barely heard him.

"He had no choice." Tash reiterated. "He dislocated his arm in every way possible until he could be free. He dropped into the water, swam his way to the shore, and walked half dead until he found you. And honestly," she swallowed slightly, "there were probably a few chunks of Asgardian goddess swimming in there with him that he'll never talk about to anyone."

This time, Barton felt bile in his throat and he held up a hand.

"Okay, sweetheart, I didn't need that imagery. I was swimming in that shit too, ya know."

"Sorry," Tash deadpanned.

Steve just stood up and ran a hand over his face. He was mentally exhausted, and he was hurting for his teammate.

"Dammit, Tony." He muttered more to himself. He turned. "Why didn't he tell us earlier? Why not let us help him."

"You're a grown man," Natasha said. "How excited would you be to tell your team of super soldiers, rage monsters, demigods, and assassins that you were afraid of the shower?"

Steve was silent.

* * *

The next morning, Tony actually came into the kitchen a little after 11 am, looking much more rested and even genuinely happy. He was clean and rejuvenated, his face completely healed and his arm nestled safely in its sling. He sat well-tempered and willing to talk about how he was feeling. He had expected Natasha to tell everyone the story, and was even grateful that she had gone over most of the details so that he could be spared reliving them. Each team member was supportive in the best way they knew how, and Tony felt guilty about not talking to them earlier.

"I am sorry I didn't tell you all the truth. I shouldn't have kept it from you – we're a team." He was sincere.

But only for a second.

A mischievous twinkle reassumed its rightful place in the corner of Tony's eye, and he nodded at each member of the team before excusing himself from the table. He sat himself on the living room couch and nonchalantly began flicking through cable channels. The rest of the team, feeling accomplished, dispersed to go about their daily activities.

Clint's phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket.

A new text message from Tony Stark…

"But on the plus side of all this…" the first text read.

…Natasha scrubbed me down in my underwear."

Clint puffed up, his eyes narrowing. "You better watch yourself, Stark." He texted back furiously.

"Go ahead, Barton, punch me. It'll just make my recovery time slower – which only means more sponge baths from your girlfriend."

"Stark, I am warning you."

"Next time, I'll tell her that bras scare me. She'd do anything to make sure I was emotionally stable, don't ya think?"

"TONY STARK, YOU SON OF A BITCH"

"Now, now, Clint-oris, watch your language – that's my mother you were about to insult."

"I know over 63 ways to kill a man with a spoon."

"Speaking of spoons, does Tash prefer little or big?"

Barton was about to respond with a brilliantly crafted string of expletives when a resounding _SLAP_ echoed from the living room, followed by an indignant cry from a Mr. Anthony Edward Stark.

"OW! HEY – WHERE DID YOU EVEN COME FROM?!"

"Just be glad that was your good arm."

"NATASHA I WAS JUST KIDDING I SWEAR!"

Another _slap._

Barton just laughed.

* * *

 **I hope you all loved the look into Tony's childhood. I have a really great idea concerning Maria and Howard that I may incorporate into this series or may do a spinoff.**

 **ALSO, for those of you who suggested PTSD for my "P" chapter, I had already picked a P prompt that I liked a little better, so I tried to tie it into this one. Hope you enjoyed the extra care and comfort Tony got in the aftermath!**

 **So this one got pretty long but I really enjoyed it, and it was a great story to come back to. I can't thank you enough for the positive outpouring on this chapter. I was super nervous about Jump Part 1 because it was my first update back. It was the first time I had felt anxious to hear judgement passed on a story, and I wasn't sure how well it would be received. Thank you all for your love!**


	15. AVENGERS CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

**Avengers Christmas Special**

* * *

 **Hey everyone! MERRY CHRISTMAS!**

 **So last chapter was pretty heavy (but you all seemed to love it, you savages), so this one is BRIGHT AND FESTIVE AND FLUFFY WITH ACTUALLY NO HURT!TONY. If you don't want to read it, I understand, it's just a Christmas themed chapter. I'm going to do a "k" chapter afterwards.**

 **HERE WE GOOOOOOOOOO**

* * *

Tony Stark is a man of many talents. He can repair a combustion engine in under five minute with nothing but an Alan wrench, a roll of duct tape, and some WD-40. He can design, patent, and fabricate the base of a hexa-axial robotic assembly control unit in an hour. He built his first circuit board at age 4.

But he'll be damned if he can figure out to cook a twenty five pound turkey.

JARVIS had offered to take care of the whole thing – after all, the entire kitchen was automated for his personal ease. But Tony had insisted – this was Christmas, after all. Tony himself had never been one for the holidays, but this fervor wasn't for him – it was for his friends.

Tony doubted Natasha had ever had a bona fide festive feast in her lifetime, so she treated the season like any other time of the year, just with thicker jackets. Hawkeye tended to amuse himself over the holidays, using ornaments in his target practice instead of the actual targets. Steve, on the other hand, always got a bit gloomy around the holidays, yearning for the life and the people he left behind in 1945. Bruce's only tell that he was feeling even mildly festive was that he played frank Sinatra's Christmas albums quietly in his lab. Thor had spent every Christmas for the past three years with Jane Foster at whatever research lab she was working at, but she had called him last week and told him that this year, she was being transferred to a security level 9 facility, even she didn't know where it was, and she would be allowed no visitors. Thor had been sulking since, and the sulking was made even worse by his introduction to drawstring sweatpants and loose cotton T-shirts. He was pulling off the homeless chic very well.

Everyone Tony knew was still running around, finishing up work, closing business deals, SHIELD agents especially didn't get to take a holiday… basically, nobody seemed to have time for Christmas.

Well, Tony was determined to see that change.

He consulted the cookbook once more and turned up his nose in disgust as he pathetically attempted to line up the turkey's asshole and the legs. The raw slap of the dead bird was grossing him out, and fisting it was making him laugh more than anything. He had been incredibly unproductive up to this point.

Tony took a break from trying to decipher the secrets of poultry and checked on the stuffing, which was being handled by a production line of his robots – who he had reprogrammed for this one day to respond to "Santa's Little Helpers". DUM-E was chopping onions into perfect slices based on the radius of the halves. U was pulling apart the bread in a series of "random" sizes ranging from a specific set of input values selected by an encoded number generator.

Tony Stark felt like he had conquered Christmas with engineering. He smiled watching them work, despite himself. There as always that sense of fatherly pride when those two _didn't_ destroy everything they touched.

"Alright, U, Santa's Little Helper #2!" U looked up from his intense bread ripping. "Speed it up a little bit, pal, you've only gone through half a loaf in an hour. You have yet to even touch the other four." Tony laughed slightly, "Allow yourself an inch of wiggle room on those sizes. They don't have to be perfect."

U seemed confused, but picked up the pace with his new inputted tolerance for bread piece areas. DUM-E made a whirring sound with his motors, chuckling at his friend. U glared at his companion, but they both returned to their respective duties.

Tony checked the stainless steel clock on the wall. It was almost noon – officially halfway through Christmas Day. Tony and Santa's little helpers had been prepping for Christmas morning for about an hour now, the team all out on bogus missions for the next few hours that Tony had sent them on. You'd be surprised how easy it is to hack into Nick Fury's email and send out a group message. The assignments had been given yesterday morning with strict instruction to depart by 9 o'clock this morning. Hawkeye and Nat were on a plane headed to Maine to teach a "SHIELD hand-to-hand combat seminar". Thor was with Steve and Coulson headed to secure a compound from enemy combatants – the address would lead them to a Walmart in central Georgia. Bruce Banner didn't even have to be sent anywhere, the scientist was working studiously as ever in his labs, and the chances of him coming upstairs were slim to none. He figured they be a little peeved when they got back, but it would all be worth it.

Tony furiously worked to assembly the mess of ingredients into the proper dishes. The potatoes, sweet and white, were set out to be mashed; the asparagus was waiting on the grill and the collard greens were steaming; the meat pie pastries were rising beautifully in the oven. All of this was a product of careful planning and YouTube cooking tutorials, for which Tony was grateful. But so far, out of all of it, Tony's favorite dish was the cranberries. The cans sat regally on the counter top, requiring zero prep time – making them the chef's best friends.

Tony scrubbed and scraped, peeled and chopped, steamed and whisked. He felt like a whiz – as if he was creating something in his lab rather than moving about a kitchen. He finally figured out how to bend the Turkey, but he admittedly gagged when the legs snapped out of the hip sockets. About a half hour later, the Turkey sitting coolly in its pan, DUM-E and U finished prepping the vegetables and bread for the stuffing. Tony mixed in the salt and seasonings as well, as some watery gravy stock, and mixed the stuffing together until its consistency was slightly moist and sticky. Stifling immature giggles, he took handfuls of the stuff and rammed it into the Turkey's anus. DUM-E lacked such composure, and his motors whizzed loudly the whole time.

It was now one o'clock. The Turkey was in the oven, the potatoes were boiling, the stuffing was being cooked alongside the bird, the meat pie pastry shells were done baking and were chilling in the fridge, and their hamburger and beef stuffing was sizzling in a skillet. The entire suite smelled of spices.

All was well in the Avengers household. Tony tidied the kitchen, and resolved to let JARVIS take care of some of the early stage dirty dishes. The dishwasher hummed as Tony ran to his room to retrieve the "piece de resistance".

DUM-E and U sat anxiously in the kitchen, listening to their master groan and harrumph, dragging something heavy from his apartments. When he emerged from the hallway, they saw the root of his struggles.

Tony Stark was carefully dragging a pre-decorated artificial tree, about 8 feet tall and 5 feet wide at its bottom. The tree had lights, tacky plastic icicles, and big multicolored Christmas balls hung on every inch of available greenery. By the proud glow on the engineer's face, it was obvious that he had been trimming the tree secretly in his room for at least the past week, probably adding more ornaments every day.

Tony laughed in triumph when he finished hauling the Christmas tree to the perfect spot in the living room. He ran around to its back and plugged the many LED strands in, effectively turning the tree into a beacon.

DUM-E whizzed and hummed, circling the tree and chirping his approval excitedly! U followed his friend, but simply sat in front of it staring, nodding his actuator up and down.

" _Beautifully done, Sir."_

"Thanks, J." Tony couldn't help the genuine smile that rested on his face. "Do you think they're gonna like it?"

" _Most undoubtedly, Sir."_

"Good," Tony nodded. "Good."

* * *

It took Tony another hour to finalize placing the presents under the tree. He had wrapped most of them already, but there were some that required a little more planning. He had just gotten off the phone with the pilot of his private jet when another caller lit up his cell. It was Coulson.

Tony quickly shushed JARVIS, and the Bing Crosby "White Christmas" soundtrack faded entirely from the room. Tony cleared his throat, trying to sound bored, and answered.

"Coulson, what can I do for ya?"

"Mr. Stark." Was the Agent's greeting. "There has been…an unexpected turn of events. We believe that a mission that Captain Rogers, Thor, and I recently departed for was, in fact, a result of faulty information. We were wondering if maybe _you_ knew anything about any recent failures in our firewall system."

"Geez, that sounds rough!" Tony slapped on the nonchalant like a pro. "I haven't gotten any alerts from my security protocols, and nobody on earth can hack those things. How did that happen? Fury and you run a pretty tight ship- it's not often that mission details get tampered with. Someone may have just made an honest mistake." Tony paused, but couldn't help himself from hearing Coulson say the next few words. "So, Agent, where exactly _are you right now?_ " He bit his lip, trying not to giggle.

"We…We appear to be at a Walmart…Outside of Atlanta, Georgia."

Tony's shoulder were shaking with the effort not to laugh.

"Have you ever been in a Walmart below the Mason-Dixon line on a Christmas day, Mr. Stark?"

"Can't say that I have, Coulson."

"Its….it's slightly terrifying and slightly fascinating. I can't really explain wh-"

Just then, a pot on the stove in the kitchen began to rumble; Tony ran to it cursing, watching in fear as it began to roil, the water threatening to boil over.

"Shit, ah, Coulson – look, I'd love to hear about your adventures with the people of Walmart, but I have, uh, a little accident in my lab I need to deal with before something breaks, so we have to cut this short, pal." Tony grabbed a dishtowel and remove the lid, yelping slightly as steam rose into the air with a fury.

"Mr. Stark? Tony? Are you alright?" Coulson sounded puzzled.

"Yep, fine, just a robot on the fritz! Really gotta go – talk to you later!" and amid more of Coulson's questions, Tony hung up.

He turned the heat on the burner way down and waved his rag wildly, sighing in relief as the pot of potatoes began to settle once more.

Tony assigned DUM-E and JARVIS to "please keep an eye on the food and shit" while he finished setting up the suite to look like a Martha Stewart Holiday catalogue.

The dining room table was covered by one of his many newly-acquired Christmas silk tablecloths with fine, needlepoint holiday decorations. Each one had run him about 300 dollars, but that was nothing. The real pain came from having to choose one from the 15 he'd bought indecisively at the retailers.

In the end, he settled for the classiest of the bunch. It was a white silk with cream embroidered poinsettias. It laid beautifully on the long, rectangular, dark wood dining table that seated up to 18 people – another recent purchase for the Avengers Tower.

Tony positioned each of the set's high backed, cushioned chairs in their perfect places around the table. The fine china was laid out with expertise. DUM-E and U rolled utensils into red and green linen napkins (the colors were alternated around the table, of course). Wine and water glasses were set out, candles were planted at each end of the table with sprigs of holly at their pewter bases. Mistletoe was hot glued to the tops of doorways, and garland lined every ledge in the house.

It was perfect.

Tony wanted to cheer as he looked at the fruits of his labors. The Avengers living quarters looked stunning – the epitome of the holidays.

Tony checked and rechecked all the food, basting the turkey with droplet precision. The potatoes were drained and mashed by Santa's little helpers while Tony set out the butters, the cranberry dishes, the salt and pepper shakers, and picked up deliveries at the front door from his local _vino_ connoisseur. JARVIS directed the kitchen pitchers and measuring cups as they concocted the perfect batch of eggnog.

The fireplace sprung to life. The Christmas carols were lulling beautifully in the background, the food looked delicious and rearing to go, sitting in their respective hot locations to ensure freshness.

All that was left to do was get ready, and then to wait.

Tony finished cleaning the kitchen, and scurried back to his apartments to shower and put on a decent outfit. He settled for a comfortable pair of dark grey slacks, a button up, and a pullover sweater. On his wrist, he wore his smallest and simplest Rolex, a silver face with a plain black leather band. He dried his hair and tried to tame it into a shapely combed-back clean look. Not bothering to wear shoes in his own home, Tony settled for a cozy pair of moccasins. Steve, Coulson, and Thor were due back from their escapade in Georgia in less than half hour. Natasha and Clint's journey had been timed similarly that they would arrive back at the same time.

Tonight would be perfect.

* * *

"I'm so pissed." Barton kicked the side of potted plant in Stark Tower lobby. "Can you believe this shit? Fury sends us out to a bogus seminar on _Christmas fuckin' day_ and then just shoots us another transpondence like 'oops, my bad, wrong date, go home.' WHAT THE HELL?" Barton kicked the fake plant once more. "Dammit, man, I just wanted to sleep in today, maybe have a Christmas pop tart or something – is that too much to ask?" he slumped down on a bench, waiting for the elevator.

Steve knew exactly how Barton had felt, but he tried to maintain his professionalism. "Well, Clint, at least we're home now. There's still a little bit of Christmas day left for us all to celebrate together-"

"Oh, no, I don't give a damn about actual Christmas," Barton began. Steve visibly flinched, deflating a little, but Hawkeye didn't notice and kept ranting. "I just wanted the day off and a little down time with some good movies and some great snacks." He sighed. "Natasha may not look it, but she's pretty pissed too."

Steve shot a glance to the Russian sitting on the other side of the lobby. Her expression was completely blank and calm.

"Can't ya tell?" Barton muttered.

"Uh, yah. She looks mad…" Steve had no idea.

"Yah, I know. I haven't seen her this annoyed for months. Tonight shall not be a lucky one, my friend." Steve blushed but Barton just chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder, moving to sit with his girlfriend in comfortable silence.

Thor, Steve, and Coulson had arrived in the lobby just as Clint and Nat's chauffeur pulled into the drop off valet circle outside. They'd all swapped stories, amazed at the group's cumulative shitty luck. From there, they had just chatted as they gathered their things and waited for the unusually slow elevator back up to the Avengers' suite.

Steve was reminiscing about Christmases past. Even in the ones he'd spent in the fields and trenches of WWII had been more festive and cheerful than this one. There were so many amazing things about the twenty first century that Steve adored – but he often felt like people of the time forgot how special the little things could be. A heavy weight settled in his chest as Steve thought of his mother, Peggy, his Howling Commandos, and Bucky. He sighed, shaking off the depressing cloud of memories. Those were in the past, this was now. Things were different but they were still good.

He was grateful for his friends – for Thor, for Nat, for Clint, for Bruce, for Tony, even though he had had a much better day than all of them combined, being the only one not called on a bogus mission that-

The smile fell from his face.

"Oh…Oh, no." Steve visibly paled and darted to the elevator, slamming the "up" button so hard it cracked. "NO, NO, NO!"

"Captain, CAPTAIN!" Thor grabbed him by his shoulder and spun him round. "Captain, what ails you?"

"TONY!" Steve cried, searching for a stairwell nearby.

"What about him?" Nat was up and over to him immediately.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, incredibly anxious. "We all were sent fake _instructions_ from _god knows who_ to get us far away from Stark Tower for an _entire day_. The only person left was Tony – alone and unsuspecting of anything wrong with our directives. _What if we were sent decoy missions to leave Tony undefended and vulnerable?! What if someone got Tony?!"_

Steve was shouting now, and the rest of the team had caught his train of thought as well. Each of them started talking hurriedly and looking for an access route to the top of the building. It was only Natasha who stopped them all in their tracks. "Guys, you know as much as I do that we need a plan. If we run in there, guns blazing, we could get ourselves and Tony killed, if he isn't already…"

There was a quick silence. Coulson ended it. "Agent Romanoff is correct, we do need a plan. But that also raises the question – how could anyone have gotten to Tony while he remained in Stark Towers? It's as secure as SHIELD in many respects, and the intruder would have to disable JARVIS – which only Mr. Stark himself is capable of. Overriding JARVIS takes almost as much skill - I've only been able to do it once."

"Son of Coul speaks true," Thor gripped his hammer tightly. "We may be mistaken completely. Our Man of Iron could be completely at ease and unharmed."

"You're right, Thor." Steve nodded, looking pensive and upset. "But we should still be on guard. Thor, fly up with Barton and keep eyes on the Avenger's Apartments. Coulson, Romanoff, and I will take the stairs." Natasha nodded promptly, nut nobody missed the grimace on Phil's face.

But, on some Christmas miracle, just at that moment, the elevator "dinged" and the lobby doors opened.

"Oh, thank god." Phil Coulson almost sagged, his relief at not having to take 40 flights of stairs with two superheros palpable.

* * *

Tony looked down at his watch, growing slightly impatient from excitement. The turkey was due to come out any second, and he'd been watching on the lobby security cameras as the team assembled in front of the elevators.

Tony had turned away for two minutes to scoop the potatoes into their respective dishes, and when he turned around, the lobby was empty of his friends. They would be arriving in the elevators any minute!

With a final sweep of the apartment, he straightened a few garland strands and rearranged a couple ornaments on the tree, placing candy canes slightly higher on the branches and whatnot.

Just then, the oven timer went off – just as the elevator doors opened on the floor. Tony made a dash across the living room headed towards the kitchen just as Steve, Phil, and Natasha stepped onto the floor.

Steve mistakenly interpreted Tony's speed as the signifying factor of a threat.

"TONY!" He shouted, turning back to his teammates in the hall. "TAKE AIM," he ordered. Natasha ran out in front of the pack, ducking and rolling against the wall and emerging into the living room with her pistol. Coulson, swept the room agent style, gun out and legs moving steadily in a box pattern around the corners. They heard the impact of Thor's feet on the landing pad outside, and the scurry of Barton's feet got louder until he burst the glass door open, bow drawn.

They all merged, military formation, into the living room until –

"Oh my…." Barton was the first to speak.

Steve rounded the corner, shield at the ready, mistaking Barton's exclamation for one of horror.

"Tony? Tony are you-"

Steve was in the kitchen.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Spiced meats and peppered vegetables, candle wax, smoked poultry, fresh greens and mouthwatering buttermilk potatoes.

The second thing he noticed was the color. The vibrant hues in the foods, the intense decorations, the immaculate shimmer of the counters and dishes, the wines, the cheeses.

Then they saw Tony, standing almost embarrassedly, holding a huge roasting pan with a glistening, huge twenty-five pound turkey. He had a raggedy apron tied across his waist and two mismatched oven mitts over his hands. Tony looked worriedly from face to face of his Christmas guests, and quickly put the turkey down on top of the stove, basting it a few quick times before removing his protective gear.

"I..Uhm," He stuttered.

He wasn't expecting this. He had expected them all to come in together, tired, but relaxed. He expected them to see everything laid out, Turkey done and waiting, Tony composed and arms open, ready to surprise them. He had expected them to gasp and awe and laugh and cheer, celebrating like merry old shits.

But they had run in here, looking scared and battle-ready, and now…

Now they were just staring at him.

Doubts shot through his mind. _I overdid it. They hate it, this isn't what they wanted. They don't even like the holidays, they are going to feel obligated to pretend that they're happy…"_ The pessimistic little voice coursed through his brain faster than he could make out what it was even saying. But he knew he had to do something.

"Uhm, I…I cooked. Merry Christmas." His eyes were wide and hesitant.

Still nobody said anything. They all gaped at him, the food, the dining room table…

"There's, uh, there's a tree, too, I…I did a thing."

They all seemed to hear him that time, turning in unison to take in the sight of the living room. The couches were inhabited with huge fleece throw blankets. Stuffed snowmen sat on the reclining chairs. There was garland and tinsel and a cheerful fireplace with stockings for each member of the Avengers team – and there was the tree.

It was beautiful – insanely bright. LED's and bubble lights and a glowing star at the very top. The presents beneath it were brilliant shades of reds and greens and plaid and candy cane stripes and little penguins and polar bears. The bows were rainbows, the tissue paper designed with a snowflake pattern.

It was perfect. Each of them was overwhelmed with how perfect it was.

They had simply forgotten to say that out loud, and so their poor Tony Stark was panicking in his designer jumper.

"If – If you guys don't like it, I can take it down – I'm so sorry I sent you on those stupid mission today, that was me by the way, I just – I needed you out of the house, and I wanted to have a Christmas like a family and I've been cooking, but if you want I can just leave you all the food and take all the other stuff down. – it's stupid anyway, really tacky, actually – I should probably just-"

"Tony, Stop." Steve was the first to speak, and his voice was soft, but commanding.

"No, I don't want you guys to pretend that you like it-"

"Nobody's pretending anything." He placed a hand on Tony's shoulder, forcing the shorter man to lift his eyes from his shoes. "Tony Stark, this is the best thing anyone has ever done for me – for us. Merry Christmas." And Steve pulled him into a hug.

Tony was shocked at first, but then returned the hug, clapping the soldier on the back. They laughed, smiles reaching their ears. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Steve!" Tony held him at an arm's length, and Clint jumped in between them, wrapping Tony in a bear hug that lifted the engineer off his feet.

"BUCKETHEAD, THIS IS AMAZING!" and the archer let out guffaw after gasp after expletive, running around like a little kid, studying the tree and the place settings and seeing boxes under the tree with his name on them. Natasha graced everyone with a full mouth smile, and placed a quick kiss on Tony's cheek and a small hug, followed by Coulson giving him a warm handshake and a genuine smile.

Tony watched them all running around, appreciating everything and calling each other over to look at things. He felt his heart soar, pride swelling in his chest along with a deep sense of contentment.

Thor came up behind him and patted his back. "You have done very well today, Anthony. I may not celebrate this Midgardian feast, but from what I understand, it is a holiday about love and family." The two of them watched the rest of the team laugh and gesture at the splendor around them.

"I believe you have captured the essence of such a thing quite well." Thor's voice took on a sage tone. Tony often forgot that Thor was of an incredibly old age and hence carried with him the wisdom of millennia. He locked his stormy eyes onto Tony's and they were alight with a bittersweet happiness framed in gratitude. "There is nothing more important in this life than the love of those we hold dear. Thank you for holding us all so close to your heart." Despite such heavy words, he smiled with enough kindness and joy that Tony felt completely humbled. Thor clapped him once more on the back and went to join Barton in looking at the splendor of the tree, questioning the Midgardian tradition of putting shrubbery into one's home.

Just then the elevator dinged and out stepped Pepper Potts, Sam Wilson, Maria Hill, and Colonel James Rhodes. All were dressed nicely and holding various bottles with ribbons. The team was even more surprised and ran to the new arrivals, greeting them and taking the gifts from them, followed by embraces and laughs. Tony almost felt bad to interrupt, but there was a turkey to be eaten after all.

"Ladies, Gentleman, and Barton-" Clint scoffed. "If you would all please take a seat, dinner is ready to be served." Tony announced with gusto and pride, and all his guests smiled and took their respective seats, complimenting him on his table and his party. Tony, being Tony, hushed them all round, insisting it was nothing, and that the surprise Christmas party was simple to coordinate – it hadn't been, of course. Everything had been a mess until the last minute, and Tony had had several days leading up to the event where he thought nothing was going to be pulled off – but here they were, all sitting down to a nice meal. Natasha had gone down to the labs to grab Bruce in all the chaos, and now the whole family was seated, waiting for Christmas dinner.

Tony brought out the potatoes, the meat pies, the cheese and wines, the vegetables, the stuffing bowl, the gravy, and amidst much hungry whooping from Clint, the prized twenty-five pound turkey.

Tony took his time lining everything up, enjoying the buildup to the extra surprise that only he and one other were aware of. Damn, he was good.

"My friends, my teammates, my sexy lady," Tony raised his glass to Pepper and She blushed, but winked back at him. "You are, without a doubt, the most important people in my life." Everyone seemed rather stunned by Tony's outright emotional display – it wasn't usually his thing.

"And before you all get sappy or tell me you're 'touched' by my 'feelings', I want to point out an imbalance that none of you seemed to notice." Everyone seemed slightly puzzled, now.

Goddamn, Tony loved theatrics.

"My friends, that beautiful, amazing, painstakingly-put-together Christmas tree over there," people chuckled, "has a present under it for everyone at this table except for one person." He paused. "And no, not me. I know you're all expecting me to say that I don't have a present under that tree because your presence here is gift enough – and while I love you all, that's bullshit, It's Christmas, so I bought myself a present and wrapped it. It's actually a new tie clip, very snazzy – silver with diamond inlay, very classy, and just as expensive as you'd expect-"

"Hm, Tony?" Pepper smiled wryly at him.

"Right, right, sorry – I digress." He coughed, smiling slightly at the head shakes and chuckles going around the table. "Anyway, the person who doesn't have a present under the tree is actually," he turned to the Norseman. "You, Thor."

People around the table looked confused and a little embarrassed, but Thor shrugged good-spiritedly. "Anthony, I was not expecting a gift – there is no harm done by this."

"Now, Now, Shakespeare, it's not that I didn't bust ass to get you something - because I did, and it wasn't easy- but your present just doesn't fit under the tree." Thor immediately looked confused, but then Tony cleared his throat.

"JARVIS, would you please inform our other guest that dinner is ready?"

" _Promptly, Sir."_

Within moments, the door to Tony's room could be heard clicking open and then shut, and petite feet made their way excitedly down the hall.

"Man of Iron," Thor's face looked afraid to be hopeful. "I am confused as to who-"

"Pal," Tony just murmured. "Just enjoy it. Merry Christmas."

And from the hall, Jane Foster came into the living space dressed in a red cashmere sweater and black leggings, her small frame highlighted tastefully as she excitedly strutted her way into the great room

"Hi, Hon." She was grinning wildly, feeling incredibly dubious and clever, and reveling in the broad and beaming face of her lover.

Thor shot from his chair, almost knocking it back on its legs.

"Milady Jane." His voice was brimming with affection, and in two strides he had closed the distance between them and was scooping her into his muscled arms with ease. She swung freely, her laugh pealing like Christmas Bells, and everyone at the table stood to greet her, clapping and cheering, laughing at the he look of wonder on the Norseman's face and his inability to let the small physicist out of his sight.

* * *

In the end, the table was full and the food was delicious. Booze were being passed graciously, and Thor had decided that his knew favorite beverage was the bottle of wine "bearing the sigil of the strangely large rabbit with a pouch in its front."

Presents were opened, ranging from gift cards to trinkets to new weapons to sweaters to book series. Each was personal and thoughtful, and the room was filled with love and joy for the whole night through.

At one point towards the end of the evening, Tony stepped out to the landing pad and took in some fresh air, a glass of champagne nestled in his left hand, his right hand casually gracing his pants pocket. He closed the door behind, muffling the uproar inside as Steve won another round of Cards Against Humanity (despite not knowing what the majority of the cards meant, in all honesty). Tony looked into the sky, affirming that this had been, in fact, the best Christmas of his life.

"Tony, you comin' back in, pal?" Rhodey was at the door, a smile plastered on his face, his fourth vodka and tonic in his hand. "We're playing charades, and you remember how _great_ Phil is at charades." They both chuckled.

"I'll be inside in a sec, buddy. Enjoy yourself!" Rhodey gave him a 'will do', and shut the door, stopping the cold from seeping into the living room.

Tony took another sip of his drink, gazing down into Manhattan. He tried to imagine what it looked like when Steve was a kid – when his father was a kid. He pictured the evolution of eras, the building of cities, the construction and deconstruction of humanity.

Everything is temporary if you look at it on a grand scale – but even in the infinite scale of the universe, some things last forever. Kindnesses – acts of love. Those have ripple effects that send waves of every amplitude into all of time and space – as far as creation can reach.

The bubbles popped in his glass and Tony smiled bitter-sweetly, taking another sip. There were so many things, so many little choices that determined so many outcomes. So many little decisions that culminated in all of these people being here, tonight.

Tony was a child of lapsed Catholics, and he himself was a lost cause when it came to religion – but he looked up unto that night sky that Christmas evening and watched the full moon as it competed against the brilliant luminescence of New York City. An unseen force seemed to pull at his heart, and he was overcome by a sense of peace.

Tony Stark raised his glass to New York City. He raised his glass to the world.

"Merry Christmas."

 ** _Fin_**

* * *

 _ **And to all good night…**_


	16. K for Kabob Part 1

**K for Kabob Part 1**

* * *

 **I know I said no more two-parters, but I got carried away…like usual…**

 **Thank you to AsgardianGrizzly for this prompt! I wanted to do a stabby one for this chapter, hence I had been thinking K for Knife, but his was much snazzier and opened more avenues.**

 **Despite the funny name, this chapter is actually going back to some pretty serious whump.**

 **Strap on your utility belts and here we gooooooooooooo!**

* * *

"WHERE-" _Smack!_

"ARE ALL-" _Clang!_

"THESE-" _Crash!_

"BASTARDS-" _Boom!_

"COMING FROM?!" _Whack!_

Tony Stark sunk an armored fist into the faceplate of yet another enemy droid. The metal crumpled and the machine sputtered to a halting death as motors exploded and wires severed. Tony didn't wait around to watch it expire, instead turning to fire three blasts in quick succession to advancing lines of "Tinmen" as Tony liked to call them.

Dr. Doom had unleashed an army of angry robots on the unsuspecting citizens of Brantôme, France; and let's just say Tony was less than impressed with the primitive mechanics of his scrap-metal soldiers. The only redeeming quality to the machines was the sheer quantity of them. Already, the team felt as though they had downed hundreds – maybe thousands – of the bastards and still more filed into line to take their place.

The Hulk was currently using cars as bowling balls and taking out waves of the droids as they marched in rank and file. The Big Guy had a smile plastered on his face – he must be having the time of his life.

Steve was back to back with Sam Wilson, each man's weapons hitting home with every stroke. Falcon had been doing aerial combat with Thor up to this point, but he dove in to provide Steve with some much needed ground relief. Even the super solider was showing signs of fatigue. Meanwhile the Norseman remained in the sky, frying any Tinman that dared step out in the open.

Natasha was with Barton in the quinjet, firing on open fields of droids and coordinating with French military forces to finalize civilian evacuation strategies. Luckily, the town was small, and the citizens had been rushed to safety soon after the first battalions descended from the sky.

Tony outfitted his last plasma cutters onto his suit and called a fair warning to his teammates. He crouched, ignited the weapons, and spun, the lasers slicing clean through any droids within a hundred foot diameter. He stood, breathing heavy. This would buy him some much needed time.

There was something about this whole situation that was troubling the billionaire, and perhaps more frustrating than the bad gut feeling was that fact that he couldn't exactly put a finger on what had him so on edge. The team had been in hundreds of fights like this before – all had ended fine. Dr. Doom had a predictable habit concerning robot armies, and every one of his attempts at world domination, though better with each try, were still weak at best.

"Cap," Tony panted into the comm system. "You need a breather? Widow and Hawkeye can tap in for a few minutes on ground control."

Steve responded, breathing heavily into the mic. "Uh," there was a sound of a crash and a droid imploding. "I'm tempted to take that offer." His voice was tired, yes, but his mood was much lighter than Tony's at the moment. "But I think I can finish up here-" He grunted, his shield decapitating another tinman. "Which at this rate, might damn-well take another ten years."

Clint laughed from the quinjet. "Tsk, tsk, Cap." Barton's voice was full of mischief. "Language..."

"One time - It happened _one time._ "

"It was a glorious moment."

Steve halted mid-fight, one hand clamped around the neck of a struggling droid and the other hand on his hip. He glared up at the aircraft, speaking sternly into his comm."Don't make me come up there."

Tony had to take the opportunity. "Yah, Barton, Don't make him come up there. He will turn that quinjet around, so help him God."

Barton laughed loudly, Tony cracking up as well. Steve just rolled his eyes and pursed his mouth in annoyance.

"If you are gonna come up here, Cap, I'll have Thor carry you – wouldn't want you to break a hip."

They watched Steve strike down another droid almost effortlessly. "You two are dangerously close to insubordination." His words were strict, but everyone knew Steve's threats were shallow.

Tony would have rejoined the banter with a witty and suave comeback, as was his specialty – but a flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned in midair, scanning the terrain, flying further from the hub of the fight and his otherwise-occupied teammates. As the 'Barton verses Rogers' banter faded in his earpiece, Tony spotted a small pack of droids detached from the fight heading to the edge of the town. Without a second thought, he pursued. These were robots - If any of them were leaving the fight, they were under a direct, programmed order to do so, and there must be a reason. Tony - being Tony, of course - wanted to know what it was.

Now, Brantôme is a quiet, lovely island town almost five hundred kilometers south of Paris. The village sits in the middle of the river Dronne with connecting bridges made of ancient stone on either side. It is a short drive to the sea and a shorter drive to the Spanish border, but besides the beautiful scenery and historic houses, there isn't much there. The streets are old and narrow; the shops, like their customers, are simple and friendly – but not worth conquering. Whatever reason Doom had for unleashing his droids on this place was lost on Tony.

He continued to follow the droids as they trekked quickly into the tree line. The island is not large, but not small by any standard, and its east-facing edge is bordered by a valley that directs half of the Dronne at a leisurely pace to the point where it rejoins its faster-moving twin at the downstream tip of the island. Beside the river and the cliffs at the valley's edge stands an impressively primeval Benedictine abbey, the oldest part of which is carved into the ancient cliff face.

If it wasn't for the army of killer robots, Tony might have thrown his hands up and retired in a villa nearby.

But there was an army of killer robots, and they were crawling down the cliffs like spiders on a wall. Tony watched them land on the hard stone at the front of the abbey's steps and make their way inside.

The villa would have to wait.

* * *

Even though none of them had thought it possible, the droid army was dwindling on its last leg. The tinmen were scattered in pieces, their parts strewn over acres and acres of French countryside. The narrow streets were barricaded by dead robots – the doors to houses blockaded by burning motors and lifeless metal shells. The fight was over.

Natasha and Clint worked the grid, shooting down any remaining droid they could find. Thor flew overhead and scanned similarly, stopping every once in a while to fry a pile of enemies just to release some pent-up aggression. Bruce was back to being Bruce and was wrapped in a shock blanket inside the quinjet. An exhausted and battered Captain America was at his side.

Steve hissed slightly as Banner worked a needle through a 10 inch gash on his abdomen.

"Sorry," the scientist shot him an apologetic look. "Usually, I would just let you heal this one on your own, but your body is severely fatigued and this is more than just a papercut – even for your metabolism. I don't want to risk an infection." He pulled the line taught. "Plus, this will reduce scarring."

"Understood, Doc. Thanks for your-" He ground his teeth as Bruce tugged harder on the thread; Steve squeezed out the last word, " _help._ "

"Sorry. Again." Bruce smiled grimly and tied a clean knot, dabbing at his neat stitches with a sterile gauze. The doctor stood, taped a new pad over the wound, and handed the super solider a looser fitting t-shirt, which Steve gratefully accepted and tenderly pulled down over his torso.

"It is already healing itself, Steve, just a little slower than usual. I should be able to take those stitches out in six hours or so. In the meantime, take a nap. Our work is done here, SHIELD is working with local law enforcement. Cleanup is their job-" The scientist smirked slightly, pausing. "And I have no doubt Tony will _so eagerly_ loan out the Iron Legion to assist with the majority of the grunt work."

Steve chuckled lightly as well. Tony loved showing off his toys – but he hated sending them for cleanup duty. If Steve remembered correctly, the first time Nick Fury had requested the suits for a post-battle spring cleaning, Tony had almost blown an aneurism.

" _THESE ARE CIVIL SERVANT FIGHTING MACHINES. THAT MEANS THEY PROTECT PEOPLE AND FIGHT THINGS. DO THEY LOOK LIKE OVERSIZED SWIFFER SWEEPERS TO YOU?"_

Anyway, after losing that fight with Fury, Tony had resigned to letting the Legion be used for cleanup as long as they were returned undamaged. He grumbled about it to no end, but the whole team knew that, in truth, Tony was always happy to do whatever he could to help.

"Speaking of Tony," Steve stood up, ignoring the burning in his side. "I haven't seen him since we cleared the downtown. Where is he?"

Bruce's eyebrows furrowed. "He wasn't with you?"

"No, I saw him go around the back of the square to head off a group of rogue droids. Haven't seen him since." Steve swallowed. "Do you think he's ok?"

"Hmm." Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. "If something _is_ wrong, and I'm not saying it is… It's not the fighting I would be worried about. Tony could take those droids in his sleep – any of us could. But when you say the droids were _rogue…_ What were they doing, exactly?"

"They weren't doing anything, really. I was busy with my own bunch, so I didn't exactly have front row seats, but it looked like a group of them were just walking away."

"That's not right."

"Well, Doctor, soldiers abandon a fight more often than-"

"Yes, but Steve, these aren't _soldiers._ These are robots. These are machines with no degree of true sentience. They can't decide anything on their own. If they were walking away, there was a reason for it. For all we know the whole fight could have been nothing more than a–"

"A distraction?" Both their eyes went wide.

"…Well, yes. A distraction…" Bruce slowly removed his glasses, nervously palming them.

Steve was on his feet in an instant, his exhausted body protesting, but he set his jaw and marched from the hangar.

"We need to find Stark. Now."

* * *

"Here, tinny-tinny," Tony had his gauntlets poised, ready to strike. His surroundings were dark and pregnant with invisible danger. The only light available was that which streamed vagrantly through the cracks in the limestone, yet so much of the chapel remained invisible to his vision. He knew the droids were down here somewhere, but all was quiet.

"Where…are…you…?" He muttered under his breath.

Stark had his night vision enabled, and his heat tracking missiles prepared, but nothing seemed to be registering. Then again, even Doom was smart enough to outfit his robots with counter-detection methods. Doom might be evil and predictable, but he wasn't a fool – Nor was Tony; he knew that if these specific droids had been ordered to behave atypically, they were most likely going to be outfitted with high tech for that very reason. The superhero had to stay on his toes.

Figures and binary coding ran through his mind. Doom had to have a reason for sending them here – and it hadn't be subtle at all. The damn things had stared at him and practically waved a "come get me" banner in his face. Doom must want him to see something, must want the Avengers to come down here to find a device or an army or an evil plan or –

 _Goddammit._

If Tony wasn't wearing a helmet he would have slapped himself in the face.

Doom wanted him to come down here. There wasn't anything for him to see – this was a carefully selected, isolated, and quiet location with limited accessibility and low visibility. Basically, this fit every criteria for-

"A trap." Tony's voice was almost pained with shame. He felt stupid for even coming down here, but now was not the time for self-pity. He needed to get out of this stupid cave. _Now._

He launched himself into the air, hovering for a split second before trying to make it back to the front of the church. He tried to remember the winding turns and corridors that led him to the back of the temple, but before he could make it ten feet in any direction, he felt impossibly strong metal hands grab at his ankles, ripping the suit out of the air and slamming it onto the hard packed and cold earth. He fired into the darkness, hoping to free himself. These tinmen were much stronger and much fiercer than the ones they had demolished in the town. They ripped at him, and he could feel even the suit denting and chipping with their ferocity. He kicked, shooting missiles and repulsor jets. He watched as six of them fell victim to his strikes and felt, decapitated or molten, to the floor, but dozens stepped up to fill their place in line. More droids had obviously laid in waiting beneath the cliff, anticipating this moment.

Tony needed help.

"J-JARVIS!" Tony yelled into the suit. "I NEED EMERGENCY BACKUP! CALL THE TEAM, CALL SHIELD– GET THEM HERE, NOW!" Another droid flung itself onto Tony's chest, clawing at his breastplate and denting the metal, sending shoots of pain through Tony's side as his ribs began to protest against the sharp pressure.

He activated a panic button in the suits programming, sending his GPS coordinates to the Iron Legion. Evacuation of the town had to be over by now, they would respond to the directive. He waited for the received signal from the Legion, but nothing came. As Tony desperately tried to fight his way out of being trampled by dick robots, he was losing hope. The droids must have signal jammers, so the Legion would never pick up his alarm. And if the Legion wasn't coming, had JARVIS been able to reach the Avengers' comm frequency?

Tony was ripped from his dread by another hoard of doom bots dropping down from the cavern ceiling, swooping into his line of sight like something out of a nightmare. Tony swung out, the suit's mechanical strength practically being annulled by the sheer resistance of the droids holding his limbs. They were pulling at him, stretching, clawing, digging, crushing, dragging him down – Tony was being pulverized.

His chest was being compacted, and beneath the haze of adrenaline, he recognized the intense pain of such a happening; but his vision was swimming and his lungs were on fire. He couldn't get a full breath, yet still, more and more robots continued to pile onto him, crawling from the darkness of the ancient church like demons. It was all Tony could do to keep his gauntlets in front of his face. He let his lasers sweep around the room, he fired locked missile after locked missile, but these droids were equipped tactical machines, and they swarmed over him like fire ants. The cavern shook with Tony's efforts, but the droids were unfazed. They were locked onto their prey.

"GET OFF ME!" Tony was panicking, unashamed. His voice was almost in hysterics as he cried out. He had never been one for small spaces, and being crushed in a dark cave by a suffocating wave of robots was doing wonders for his developing claustrophobia.

After what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than five minutes, Tony finally resigned to just curling in on himself. Claws continued to rip at him, despite his surrender, but he did feel as though the attack was lessening. Maybe if he gave up, they would simply capture him – or if their programmed objective was torture, he could feign unconsciousness and they would halt, buying him precious time. Tony wondered what he could do to trigger code loopholes, maybe if he-

All conscious thoughts vanished from his mind as pain jolted through him.

Tony cried out in primitive fear and agony as one of the droid's tiny metal claws dug past the left knee joint in the suit. It ripped the hydraulic line and Tony felt it wriggling grotesquely into his leg, his flesh and muscle tearing, the warmth of his own blood seeping into his boot. The next stab was less experimental and more precise – his skin parted like butter as another tinman thrust through the joint over his left shoulder. The pointed hand stabbed cleanly through the upper body, punching a small-diameter hole through metal, flesh, bone, tendon, and out to the other side. As soon as it was through, it retracted, leaving Tony to watch with unbelieving eyes as blood spewed from the wound over his suit and onto the cavern's earthen floor.

The engineer's mind began to scatter, and he thought he vaguely heard someone screaming. As another claw cleanly punctured through his back plate without any difficulty, he realized the screams were his own, and they sounded horrific. Shrill and torturous and guttural, his throat was raw and tight. More bots began to play follow the leader, and Tony tried once again to kick them away, but he was being poked and prodded and impaled from all sides. His whole body was on fire, the warmth of his blood filled his suit.

The man was shaking from exertion, and his limbs were weak and injured. The tinmen had been precise enough to avoid his major arteries and organs, so Tony knew he would be bleeding out before anything else. The thought festered in his mind, and he realized that Doom's intention had been for this to be as painful as possible. Tony felt tears prick his eyes.

 _So this is how it ends._

The thought trickled into his mind as he began to shut down. This was how Tony Stark was going to die, shanked to death by Doom bots. He couldn't even muster up the strength to cry out as a final blade pierced his abdomen, working its way through the suit's metal ribs like an insect. Bile rose in his throat and he didn't bother to push it back down. Tony lifted his faceplate just as he emptied the contents of his wounded stomach onto the hard packed dirt floor. The smell assaulted his senses and he retched again. There was a faint ringing to his ears and the edges of his vision were rimmed with darkness. The cold of the ground washed over him, and Tony gave a violent shudder, curling in on himself.

The droids seemed to fall quiet. The only sound in the room was Tony, heaving and coughing as blood dripped from every orifice in his face. His breaths were labored and moist, his blood painting the ground around him. He shook violently, reaching out hands to grasp at the nothingness in the cavern, swatting blindly in scattered thought. The droids did nothing – reacted only by moving away from his blind reach. It seemed as though they considered their mission accomplished.

Tony gave a whisper of a thought to his team - how they would find him…here, like _this_. Guilt and remorse formed a lump in his throat, and Tony cracked one of his eyes open, a silent prayer on his lips to see his friends.

What he saw instead was an army of droids, unmoving, like reapers poised to collect a soul. They stood vigilant, focused, and at attention. Almost as if they were…waiting?

But… waiting for what?

He could feel his heart slowing down, the lack of blood and the lack of oxygen from his crushed diaphragm were too much for his organs to keep up with. _I'm already going to die,_ Tony wanted to scream at them. _What more do you want?_ But Tony had to resign to whimpering.

"Wa'…d'you…want?" He choked out, full of more anger than pain. He spit, emptying his mouth of bloody saliva. The engineer's usually cajoling voice was in shreds, tattered and broken. The sound of it made him flinch. "What else...c'n you..pos'bly do t' me?"

Yet they stayed waiting, unresponsive. They were no longer interested in the broken man on the floor. They had a new directive, a new focus – Tony just wished he knew what the hell it was.

But suddenly, a familiar sound echoed from the entrance of the cave, so faint that Tony was surprised he picked it up at all behind the ringing in his ears. The ups and downs of the sound bounced back along the ancient chapel corridors and found their way to him. When he was convinced, he wasn't just hallucinating, Tony squeezed his hazy eyes shut and shot a silent thank you to the crowd upstairs.

His friends were coming for him.

Clint Barton, in all his reckless glory, could be heard complaining about god-knows-what to god-knows-who, and it was the most beautiful whining Tony had ever heard. For a split second, relief and hope washed over Stark. Everything would be over soon, Steve and Nat and Clint and Thor and Sam and Bruce were coming to rescue him – they had found him, they always do. As he lay there on his back, tears of relief spilled silently from the sides of his eyes and traveled to the nape of his neck.

Everything would be alright.

…

 _But then the droids began to move._

They retreated into the shadows. They crawled noiselessly back onto the ceilings and into the holes in the walls from whence they came. They assumed their position in the unassuming darkness. They were invisible to all except those who knew they were there. And that's when realization dawned on the engineer.

They were waiting for the rest of the team.

This had been a multipurpose trap. Tony was the big gun, and they had taken him out separately. Now, they would use him as bait and destroy his friends – his family.

Tony would be damned if he'd let that happen.

Barton's voice was getting closer, and Tony thought he could hear the rest of the team alongside the archer. Banner, who would have been mumbling in detail about the historical significance of such a chapel, was noticeably absent, most likely still recuperating in the quinjet. Steve, whose long and heavy strides were familiar to all members of the team, seemed less commanding than usual, and his voice seemed tired. Romanoff's only audible identifiers were the incredibly light footfalls of her combat boots on the old dirt-packed floors.

"His locator says he's in here – but it's almost all static. And this place is dead quiet. I don't see anything, Steve. Maybe JARVIS sent a faulty message – the signal was pretty grainy. Maybe Tony damaged his comm unit during the fight. He might not be down here at all…" Their voices were far off, but getting nearer.

 _Yes,_ Tony was internally panicking, his battered face tensed and contorted in pain and frustration. _There was a mistake_. _Leave, leave! And don't come any closer. Get out, dammit. Please!_

Tony wanted to shoot their Captain when he remained loudly adamant. _"_ No, something is definitely wrong, I can feel it. Split up and look for Stark." Steve ordered.

Tony couldn't let them be lured into the trap, and he certainly couldn't let them split up. He opened his mouth, begging his damaged throat to muster a few words. All that he was able to do was get out a small mewling sound, tight and choked. The droids didn't even stir.

The tinmen didn't see him as a threat; and if he wasn't strewn across death's doorstep, Tony might have allowed himself to feel insulted.

Tony Stark was Iron Man, dammit. He needed to save his team, to warn them, at least. If he couldn't do that, everything else was for nothing. He sucked in a breath, preparing to call out to his friends, and only cringed instead, a whoosh of air and bloody mist spewing onto his lips. He hacked painfully – and unfortunately, loudly.

"I-I think I heard something over here." Clint was getting closer, and voices were joining behind him. Undoubtedly his bow would be drawn and his eyes adjusted to the dark, but Tony knew that Barton's weapons wouldn't matter here – hell, Tony Stark was a weapon by himself, and now he was bleeding out on a muddy floor. He shuddered to think what would happen to the most human members of the team if they were set upon.

" _B'ton…"_ Tony whispered hoarsely. _"B'ton….No…"_

"Friend Archer, I hear nothing." Thor couldn't whisper if he tried, though it did seem he was trying. "Perhaps, Good Captain, we should return to the surface of the town and look there?"

"No. We don't leave until we're certain Tony isn't here." There were mumbled nods and agreements. "Tony? Tony are you back there?" They were only fifty feet away now, innocently calling out for him, completely unaware. The droids were poised, primed, and ready – he could hear their motors whirring to life and their actuators flexing. He smelled metal, lead solder, and the coppery smell of his own blood. Unless he did something, his best friends would be dead in minutes.

" _No…. …g 'way…..run…"_ Tony tried to move, to drag himself towards the entrance of the cavernous room, trying to let the echo play to his advantage.

He was stopped almost immediately by the spiked foot of a droid jamming into his back, threatening to pierce the suit and sever his spine. Tony froze and waited for the death blow… but it didn't come. The droid just held him there, a minnow on a hook, waiting to capture a trout.

Tony felt a final surge of rage run through him at the thought, and he glared almost defiantly at the droid. Much to his pleasure, the droid was staring back.

" _Hey…guess….what_?" Tony's voice was a breath, now. His lungs were practically collapsed, and his throat was bloodied.

The droid said nothing in return, but Tony knew he was listening. Doom was listening.

Tony gave a small chuckle, wheezy and wet, but genuine. He raised one shaky gauntleted hand. The voices of his friends were just outside.

It was now or never.

Tony took a last breath.

" _I'll… s'you... in hell_."

And before the droid could shove the spike anywhere, Tony shot a dozen flares out of his left gauntlet and embedded them into the top of the cavern ceiling. The flares exploded red, sending streaks of lit phosphorus shooting off in all directions. The sound was thunderous, and the blast was blinding. The cavern exploded into light, and the hundreds of droids perched on the ceiling and shucked away into the shadows of the wall were exposed – just as a startled group of superheroes stumbled into the room. They immediately saw the enemy forces and dove back into the corridor, radioing for Banner and hopefully SHIELD backup as well.

They hadn't seen Tony in the corner.

Tony had no doubt that his friends could hold the hallway – it would be something out of a goddamn Spartan movie, for sure, but they were alert, now. It wasn't a trap anymore, nor was it a surprise. They would be fine, they would survive. Immense relief washed over the engineer, and with it came acceptance. Acceptance that his job was over, acceptance that his friends could and would survive without him, and acceptance that he had done as best as he could.

The droids began shrieking when the light had exploded, and they continued to shriek as they charged from the room into the hallway to face off with their targets. The droid that had been pinning Tony to the ground withdrew his blade and charged shrieking into battle with all the rest. The sound was shrill and deafening, but Tony could hardly hear it.

The billionaire managed to roll onto his back, blinking dazedly at the empty ceiling, all alone now as a battle waged nearby. Tony's eyes fluttered closed, and he felt the feathering cold drape over his body like a blanket of snow. It was lulling him nearer and nearer to rest, to a sleep that he didn't have to wake up from. His heartbeat faded gradually into the forefront of his mind, and the air seemed to stand still around him. The chapel was silent to him – peaceful, even – despite his scientific brain telling him that this was impossible, that there was death and metal and war waging not ten feet away…

But at the same time it wasn't. It was just him, here. Him alone – and he was a little afraid and a little curious and a lot tired. Minutes ticked by and the blackness turned into a silent dark which became a vacuum.

Finally, it was time.

Tony felt unconsciousness scoop him up slowly and gently, like a parent lifting their sleeping child from bed.

Unconsciousness tenderly cradled his head, warm and welcoming, holding Tony's face close to its chest.

Unconsciousness draped a warmth over Tony's so-cold body, pressing it around his neck and tucking in his feet…ok, that's thoughtful of it. A bit unorthodox, but whatever…

And then Unconsciousness…. whispered something in his ear?

Why was unconsciousness whispering? Tony strained to listen, maybe it was something important about going through afterlife border patrol…

"….Its…Stark…Got…now…alright…"

Would Unconsciousness mind speaking up a little bit, please and thank you?

"….Stay…I…lose….Stark…today …not…Tony…"

Unconsciousness sure sounded a lot like Clint Barton. Hmm, maybe voice imitation was something Death did to make you feel comfortable.

"Need…soon….not….last…longer…"

Well, maybe death had a partner that sounded exactly like Steve Rogers.

"Get….now…!" And another partner who sounded just like an angry Natasha.

The background was starting to be noisy again. Tony thought he heard gunshots and roars and crashing, but it was so faint, so hazy…he was being jostled, now, he knew that. He wasn't gently falling into unconsciousness, anymore – he was being manhandled into oblivion. He tried to blink, to focus on whatever was happening, but his eyes wouldn't open. The orchestrations of battle hummed at the edges of his awareness, and the soundtrack dimmed quietly until once again, all was, once again, quiet.

But this quiet was different than before – it wasn't saturated with confusion and anticipation. This silence was empty – void of _everything_.

And He felt weightless, but not because he was being carried.

For a last split second, Tony stark noticed a strange absence of a specific sound – one that he couldn't quite place. Something that you hear so much, so often, so clearly, and for so long that your brain tunes it out completely.

But even when you can't hear it, you know it's there. And simultaneously, the familiar up and down of your chest that accompanies it ceases to be necessary. It took Tony a moment, but he arrived at a conclusion.

It was his body that was silent.

That's when Tony Stark knew, in his last waking moment, that he had reached his end.

That's when Tony Stark knew his heart had stopped.

That's when the world powered down.

* * *

 **Usually, I spend more time of the hurt side of the fic, but this one went by a bit quicker because YOU SHOULD ALL GET READY FOR A VERY INTENSE ANGSTY PART 2 FROM ALL LOVING MEMBERS OF THE TEAM.**

 **So yah, doing more aftercare on this one!**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	17. K for Kabob Part 2

_Steve couldn't stop running._

 _He was exhausted. Banner's stitches had long since ripped. He honestly had no idea where his shield was. He didn't remember exactly in what direction he should be going, but he didn't care._

 _He couldn't stop running._

 _Tony was tucked into his chest like a rag doll. It had taken them less than a minute to get him out of the suit – most of the system locks were sliced cleanly through by what he could only assume were the droids. The Mark VIII was beaten to hell, and Tony wasn't faring much better. Anyone could tell the engineer was on Death's door. His hair was plastered to his forehead in a cold sweat. Each of his breaths came shakier and bloodier than the last, and crimson spots speckled his body like a grotesque Twister mat. Steve, for the first time, cursed his enhanced hearing - each unsteady heartbeat struggling in Tony's chest resonated in the super soldier's brain, burning itself into his memory and igniting nightmare after nightmare._

 _Steve could only pray they hadn't gotten there too late, but he knew that he couldn't waste any time he might have left._

 _So he kept running._

* * *

 **FIVE MINUTES EARLIER**

* * *

"Tony? Oh, god, Tony. It's ok, pal. Tony we've got you, now. It's alright." Barton was tripping over his own words, honestly unsure if he was muttering reassurances for his own benefit or the benefit of his best friend lying motionless on the earthen floor. His nimble archery fingers were uncharacteristically numb, fumbling along the gnarled and twisted pieces of titanium alloy.

"Tony? Tony please stay with me, pal. I can't lose you, Stark. Not today, pal, not today. Tony, you're gonna be fine, Tony, I promise...I promise."

Clint had never seen him so destroyed – so utterly _mutilated_. It was ghoulish – completely unnatural. His flesh was torn; he had been run through God-knows-how-many times…there was so much blood. _Do people even have that much blood? How is he even alive? How can we even save him? I…_

Steve appeared at his side without giving Barton time to warn him. Before Barton could even hold out a forearm to stop the solider from advancing, Steve's eyes found Tony and his expression seemed to go blank. His eyes focused in on the sight before him and he sat back on his heels, a small gasp catching in his throat. Steve barely gave himself half a second, before he sprang back into action, mumbling to himself and helping Barton to take off the last pieces of the suit. Tony was free in moments, and Steve scooped him effortlessly into his arms, fatigue and injuries forgotten.

"Tony needs a medivac immediately. If we don't get him cleared soon, He's not going to last much longer."

The archer nodded, face flushed. They ran from the room, climbing over the destroyed mounds of droids. The team had made relatively quick work of the hoards as soon as they setup their lines in the corridor. The droids were forced to file in a line – walking single file to their deaths. The combined forces of the Avengers had destroyed them easily enough once the team had gotten into the rhythm of it – but if they had been caught with their backs to the walls, Steve had no doubt that the rest of his crew would be in the same shape as Tony….

Oh Tony…

Steve held him closer, stumbling quickly through the dimly lit passageways. Natasha and Thor were piggybacking off each other, taking down the last few droids, but Sam Wilson had the corridor already secured and was ushering them forwards. Sam had been the one to spot Tony on the heat scanner once the battle had died down, and his retrieval had quickly become the number one priority.

"GO, GO, GO!" Sam waved them through the hall, flagging their movements and directing them to the front door. Natasha fired into the dark, and the screams of the last few droids echoed in the tunnels.

"Get Stark out of here. Now!" Her tone was like cold steel. This was not a good situation, and nobody was pretending to be optimistic.

Barton took off as fast as he could go, just feet behind Rogers. It didn't take him long at all to realize that he was not going to be able to keep up. Steve was in full Captain America mode, sprinting fast enough to outrun a jeep, never mind a tired archer.

But Hawkeye, to his credit, didn't stop trying. He followed Steve up the side roads of the cliff, the gap between them getting larger and larger as Steve maintained his ridiculous superhuman pace. Clint was struggling to catch his breath, his eyes glassy and his chest burning, but he kept running. He kept running until Steve was hundreds of yards ahead of him, until he couldn't hear anything but the pounding in his hearing aids and a faint buzzing sound. He ran until his legs gave out, until bile and fear snaked up his throat and he was suddenly on his knees, retching into the French countryside, his whole body shaking and his hands grappling in his hair as panic welled in his throat, making everything clench and tremble.

Sounds were all around him – his own heartbeat, his shallow breathing, the sound of Tony's breaths, the sound of Steve mumbling, the sound of the water lapping so innocently at the shores of the town as if nothing had happened – there was too much sound.

Barton was clawing at his ears, wrenching his aids out, scratching, and muttering incoherently. The aids jostled in protest at the efforts of his numb fingers and screeched a high pitch protest at being so carelessly handled, which just laid Barton flat on the ground, wincing.

He didn't even realize Natasha was rubbing small circles on his back until she grabbed his face in her hands. He found her eyes and immediately stilled, the hearing aids still screeching away. She delicately plucked them from his ears, one by one, and shut them off, putting them in his chest pocket carefully, making sure he saw where she was storing them. The silence was intoxicating, and the overwhelmed Avenger almost sobbed aloud with relief, his head falling backwards to face the sun.

She cupped his face again, his slight stubble tickling at her palms. A delicate thumb came to his cheek, wiping away a frustrated tear from the Archer's face. " _Shhhhhhh…"_ She mouthed. She leaned forward, still crouching, and pulled his face to her sleeve, wiping some spittle from his lips. She handed him her canteen, and he drank small sips, hiccupping slightly. But the archer was breathing normally again, feeling safe in the enveloping silence and knowing that his lover was there. She hugged him quickly, humming to him, knowing that he couldn't hear her tune, but was soothed by the vibrations against his shoulder.

Barton nodded into her, burying his face deep into the red curls licking at the nape of her neck. She smelled like sweat and gunpowder. His calm deepened.

Natasha held him for only a few more moments, and then a familiar static filled the air. Barton opened his eyes as a heavy wind descended upon the team in the field. The quinjet hovered above them, and before Clint knew it, Thor had him by the waste and was launching himself upwards towards the aircraft. Sam Wilson had Natasha only a few feet away, jetting upwards with the spy wrapped carefully around his middle.

As a team, they carefully flew up into the docking bay of the quinjet, the doors sealing quickly behind them. Before they even had time to regain their balance on solid ground, the quinjet was taking off, Bruce Banner at the controls, extra years of stress seemingly etched into his face. From the corner of Barton's eye, he could see Tony Stark's motionless form locked and sealed into the medivac transport tube, field scans of his body being taken electromagnetically and sent to the nearest Class A trauma center in Paris.

The team's ETA with the quinjet maintaining top speed would be less than twenty minutes.

The Archer doubted it would be fast enough.

* * *

A pincushion.

Stark looked like a pincushion.

Natasha had seen a lot of gore in her day – some of it she had inflicted. She seen stabbing, shooting, pulling, twisting, snapping, tearing…hell, she'd even seen some flaying once in Lithuania.

But pincushioning? That was new.

She watched the gurney take Stark from the helipad and load him into the high speed elevators that would take him directly to surgery. She had called ahead while they were in the quinjet. While she delivered specifics to the Chief of Surgery in perfect Parisian French, JARVIS sent their orthopedic and thoracic surgeons every scan of Tony's skewered body.

If Stark survived this, he would look like a Dalmatian, covered in spots from head to toe.

But survival was the first step.

Natasha didn't usually shut herself down the way she used to – the way she had to, especially before Budapest. But today, she found herself resigning – not disassociating, but simply centering herself on solidity. The solid facts were that Barton needed her to keep him calm. Thor needed her to explain what the medical devices were doing. Bruce needed her to keep his heart rate down. Sam needed her to comfort Steve, and Steve needed her to glance into his eyes every minute and give him a slow nod that was supposed to be meaningful.

Each person she helped here found their own meanings in her small reassurance. They found personalization, as if she were letting down her own walls just for them. It made them feel special – loved a little bit extra – something everyone needs once in a while. In some cases, it was true, she was dropping walls; in others, it was a façade of a dropping façade spun out of earnest sympathy and compassion rather than solely for the point of deception. Basically, what she was doing was the spy equivalent of a _white lie_.

 _Let them think I know what I'm doing. Let them think I'm just as internally unstable right now as they are._

As long as it helps them sleep at night.

Her fears were controlled within her. Pent up and clawing at their cage, but harmless. Meanwhile, pheromones leaked from the pores of everyone who she had seated in the waiting room. The smell of fear was all around. Fear and blood and sweat.

Towels were…borrowed…from the locked supply closet. They were passed to soldiers, gods, doctors, and assassins alike. Each numbly began to wipe sweat (and in most cases, Tony's blood) off their faces, chests, and hands. When they missed a spot, it was wiped for them. When they needed warm water and soap, they were led to a washroom. When they needed water or a pillow, it appeared.

This was Natasha's job. A quiet mother with even quieter maternal instincts. She did what she did half out of training and half out of decency, but not solely out of compassion.

Deep down, the thought of losing Stark ripped her apart. He was a dear friend and confidant, and she would mourn him severely in her own way – but she had mourned many friends – more than the world would ever know even existed. But more importantly, Natasha knew what Tony's death would do to Barton. She knew what it would do to Steve, and to Pepper. She knew Rhodey would never be the same – though the United States Air Force might be better off as a whole…

Agent Natasha Romanoff was a spy, and adaptation is in her nature – she should always be ready for change and be prepared to accept it. If Tony Stark were to die tonight in a French Hospital, her life as an Avenger would end, and a new one would begin.

New friends to make, new names to remember, new backstories to fabricate, and new identities to assume. She had grab bags all over the world. She knew what she needed to do, and on any other occasion, like so many other occasions in her life, she would do it without any hesitation.

But her piercing gaze swept over a pained pair of hazel eyes, slight freckles dusting the bridge of the nose that separated them, and an unruly lock of dirty blonde hair teasing the temple of the face that she had caressed so many times in private. She watched the way his hand curled involuntarily around the armrest of Steve Roger's chair, the Captain who sat next to him, willing the soldier to stay by his side. She watched as Thor's calloused hand patted her favorite one of his shoulders softly in comfort. These were her truest friends, but this was his family.

If Tony were to die, and the team to disassemble, she would always have Barton. But if they were to lose the team, Barton would only have her.

She couldn't let that happen to him.

For the first time in a long time, Natasha Romanoff found herself hoping that things wouldn't change.

* * *

"Ant'ony Edward Stark?"

The surgeon's accent was thick, but the name was clear enough to send a ragtag bunch of superheroes scrambling to attention outside the operating ward. The hard backs of waiting room chairs had been their only home for the past 20 hours while Tony's life was in limbo, but nobody was really having a hard time leaving them behind.

"That's us. Me. Well, we-but, us, in general." Steve's tone was that of a nervous kid from Brooklyn, not holding even a trace of a commanding officer. His hands gestured wildly to himself and the others in a confusing series of gesticulations that only amplified his nerves.

"We're here for Tony. Yes, Tony is why we…are…here." He cringed. So did everyone else.

"Well, Monsieur." The surgeon flipped his charts open, skimming over French notes on the surgery, nodding and pushing his reading glasses up his nose. "Your friend, eh? Iz' a fighter. Mon dieu, hiz heart stop ze beating t'ree time - but _non_ , we got heem! Ze blood bank is empty, Monsieur," he laughed, hopefully joking…hopefully… "But he will live. Give your friend seex more hours to, eh, recover. Zen, you see him, oui?"

There were a few smiles and one large collective sigh of relief as Steve gratefully shook the surgeon's hand. The doctor went down the line, recognizing Avenger after Avenger, even stopping with Thor to have an ER nurse take their picture. Natasha thanked him in French, and the two had a soft conversation on one side of the room, the Russian undoubtedly getting more details from the doctor in his native tongue. The group, which had grown since their initial arrival, finally kicked back to life, making phone calls, grabbing real meals, finding a shower…

Well before the surgery had finished, Coulson had showed up with Miss Potts and a very welcome onslaught of clean SHIELD PT uniforms. The grey sweats were welcomed by all, especially Thor who had started to feel self-conscious about his cape somewhere around hour 4 when a rushing nurse tripped over it. He had jumped to help her to her feet, slewing chivalries – the poor girl's ovaries had probably exploded on the spot, but luckily for her she was in a hospital. Had she fainted, all would have been well.

So now they sat again, the Earth's Mightiest Heroes, decked out in matching grey sweat suits.

The CEO of Stark Industries and Coulson (first name, Agent) were the only two in suits – but then again, for those two, business dress was probably their version of comfortable.

Pepper had just slammed her phone back down into her purse after a lengthy conversation with some idiotic investor when its ringtone sounded once more, a low and professional buzzing.

Pepper looked exhausted, obviously considering rejecting the incoming call, until the caller ID flashed across her face. The whole team jumped a little at her shrill gasp as she answered hurriedly and clattered to a quiet hall, black stiletto heels clickity-clacking on the tile floor as she rounded the corner towards the water fountains. Her voice was high and excited, and piqued everyone's curiosity.

Pepper returned within moments, a smile plastered on her face. She gathered everyone around.

"That was Doctor Helen Cho's office." She preluded, everyone catching on in an instant. "She's on her way to Paris." People outright cheered, clapping Pepper on the back as well as each other. "As long as Tony is stable," Pepper continued, tears licking at the corner of her tired and overjoyed eyes, "tissue regeneration should only take one night."

The gravity of Pepper's words seemed to hit Bruce Banner a little later than everyone else. "Wait, so - Helen's _coming_? _Here?_ " He looked like a kid at Christmas.

His voice was also an octave too high.

"I mean, uh, Helen's coming – how n-nice. Helen is great, yah, gotta love Helen." Literally everyone was staring at him, and he just fiddled with his glasses in typical Bruce manner. "I mean, gotta _like_ Helen. Like her. She's very smart. Great…labcoats. Helen."

Steve blushed slightly and Sam Wilson shook his head, a low chuckle stifled in his throat.

Barton just laughed out loud, watching as Bruce's ears went firetruck red.

* * *

The ICU where they were keeping Tony was completely off limits. Once the French Surgeons and Post-Op teams had been alerted of the situation and the arriving guests, all space had been cleared and sanitized for Helen Cho's tissue regeneration therapy – aka _The Cradle 2.0._

Even Steve had to admit, thinking about the Cradle left a bad taste in his mouth – especially after everything that had happened with Ultron…But that was in the past, and regardless of what had happened, Helen Cho's Invention was being implemented in mobile trauma units and battlefield medical kits around the world. He couldn't find fault with the invention, just what it had been used for in its sad beginnings…

Dr. Cho greeted the team when they arrived, but promptly set to work unloading and preparing her room. The Cradle was laid in an empty operating room and Tony was wheeled in to meet it.

They hadn't seen their friend since handing him off to the helipad doctors upon arrival, but even as he was wheeled past them, they couldn't really see much of him anyway. Almost 80 percent of his body was wrapped in white gauze and bandages. The doctors had told Natasha some figures – somewhere along the lines of half a mile of sterile wrappings, over four hundred stitches, ten bone screws, twenty one pints of blood – the number made Steve's head spin, and he was glad that Tony was as unconscious and as bundled up as he was when they saw him from the short distance in the hall. Otherwise, their hearts might not have been able to take the sight before them.

The Team was allowed into the gallery to check on Tony after the Cradle had been working its magic for about an hour. At first, stitches had to be carefully removed to let the tissue regeneration work, but only one by one. It was tedious work, but as soon as the outer layers of skin had healed over the puncture wounds, the full Cradle could be allowed to operate normally without stitches getting in the way.

The IV in the engineer's left forearm was taped over with a special reflective tape that told the machine to avoid it – although, as Bruce commented, it would be "fascinating if Tony's tissue cemented an IV Port in his skin," to which Sam commented "it would certainly make doing drugs a lot easier," to which Barton responded "and it would look like a miniature arm penis."

Natasha swatted him for that one…right before adding her own: "miniature penises are something Stark is used to." Which caused Sam Wilson to literally choke on his blueberry muffin to the point where Thor smacked him across the back in order to dislodge the perilous pastry, but only managed to send Falcon face-first into a wall.

So now, seven hours into Tissue Regeneration – Stark was over 85% healed, and Thor was snoring contentedly in the viewing deck of the O.R.. Steve was napping lightly nearby, comforted by the steady beeping of the machines below. Barton was sprawled on the floor perpendicular to the Asgardian, his tousled hair brushing against the blonde's torso. Sam Wilson was in a chair with his legs propped up on Mjolnir, which lay unmoving on the coffee table, and his head tilted back against Steve's shoulder so that the icepack sitting on his slightly broken nose wouldn't shift.

Bruce was geeking out over coffee with Helen in the hospital café, and Natasha had been the only one sensible enough to go with Pepper and Coulson to get a hotel room across the street.

Tony would be kept on sedation until the morning. Steve felt peace wash through his body at the thought of his friend being awake and responsive. Horrible, bloody images of the smaller man's tattered shell would forever haunt the super solider – he doubted he would ever stop seeing the bloodstains in his suit. He shuddered hard, almost disturbing Sam who so gracefully had plopped down onto his shoulder. Steve had a compassion for his teammates that ran deeper than friendship – these men and women were his siblings, the only family he had left on this earth.

He couldn't help but overanalyze the events of the last 48 hours – how close he had come to losing every one of them…

But now wasn't the time to dwell on those things.

 _Tony is fine_ , he kept reassuring himself. _You got there in time. You had him. You saved him. You didn't let him down._ He repeated it in his head like a mantra, soothing himself into a drowsy state.

Tomorrow, Tony would be transported in perfect health back to Stark Towers for a mandatory full day of bedrest – which Steve knew very well that he would undoubtedly ignore. Instead, Tony would immediately begin to redesign and rebuild his Mark VIII, probably starting on a Mark IX while he was in the swing of things.

Come to think of it, Stark would probably complain the whole flight home about his damn suit – about weapons optimizations, problems, troubleshooting – _not to mention how whiney he's going to be that the team didn't at least_ try _to salvage some of it…_

Steve pondered on this for a moment, eyebrows furrowing together as he drifted off to sleep.

On second thought, maybe the Captain would ask them not to lift sedation until _after_ the fourteen hour flight.

* * *

 **FIN**

* * *

 **I'm sorry this update took so long, guys! I'm writing it at 2 am as it is! Midterms, ok. Midterms. Engineering is hard.**

 **Please keep being patient, you're all amazing! And honestly, seeing the reviews makes me spur into action faster, so if you want more updates, REVIEW!**


	18. L for Lies Part 1

**L for Lies: Part 1**

* * *

 **TW: kind of suicidalish and self-punishing, self loathing!Tony.**

 **VERY ANGSTY. A chapter in which Tony Stark behaves like a stubborn and injured Tony Stark and waits until the last minute to tell anyone that something is wrong because he is ashamed of himself. ENJOY AND PLEASE REVIEW.**

* * *

Tony was so close he could goddamn taste it.

The team had been fighting this beast now for almost an hour, ducking and weaving and firing to no avail. Nobody could line up a square shot – it was just too fast, too good. Its razor-sharp claws were each the size of a U-Haul truck. The serrated pincers were not only massive, but could clamp through a human body like it was a twig – they had found that out the hard way when the monster had gotten a hold of one very unfortunate SHIELD cadet.

Shaped almost like a giant scorpion, this fine fellow had been terrorizing Southern Arizona and the Mexican Border for a month now, but it had evaded SHIELD at every turn – not something Coulson was particularly happy about. Until this afternoon, the agency had almost given up all hope of ever catching this thing. That was, until the blip.

Ah, yes, the beautiful _blip._ Finally, a blip had appeared on the Doppler. Without wasting any time, the Avengers were called in.

The fight was fast and dirty. The moment the quinjet had landed, they were off like horses at a race. Natasha and Steve were walking through fireballs on the street without flinching. Clint was firing from every angle at once, and Tony was unleashing everything (and he means _EVERYTHING_ ) he had: old weapons and new weapons and not-even-tested-yet weapons. This tussle should have been over in time for lunch.

That was, until the damn thing disappeared.

It literally disappeared. Vanished. Went completely undetectable at every level: heat, radiation, motion sensor, seismograph…everything was coming up blank. There was a giant scorpion, oozing and snapping, wreaking havoc in the southwest – oh, but if that wasn't enough, it was also invisible.

Needless to say, everyone had been caught completely by surprise. Steve was mid-throw with his shield but had kind of just let it putter pathetically to the ground as his mouth gaped open.

They felt instantly vulnerable. The order came to fall back to the perimeter. As soon as the retreat had been realized, and Tony had counted each of his teammates on the ground by the SHIELD armored base, he landed. They were on him in seconds.

"Stark, where is it n-"

"- heat scanning sh-"

"- the hell is it, Tony, and-"

"Anything? Anything at-"

"-near me? Can-"

"-should have been im-"

"GUYS!" Tony had shouted, just as frustrated as all of them. "I HAVE NOTHING. Nothing. Zilch, nada, negative - So stop asking." He cursed loudly, itching to blast something to pieces. "This thing literally just dropped off every map known to man. For all we know, it could have teleported to Australia." He huffed again, kicking an innocent trashcan halfway across the sidewalk. His face was contorted in thought - the perpetual problem solving glare of an engineer. "Just…just give me a minute." The team waited patiently, despite their keen need to have a directive. Tony would have laughed if he wasn't so preoccupied. That's the problem with a group of disciplined soldiers – they aren't comfortable unless they have a plan.

Suddenly, Tony's eyebrows shot through his forehead and his jaw set firmly in a self-satisfied smirk. "I can reconfigure my photon scanner. Nothing can hide from that – even this slimy bastard."

Everyone seemed to take a breath. The group had regained their footing.

"What exactly does that mean, Mr. Stark?" Coulson was standing easily to the side.

"My dear Phil, what it means is that I will be detecting our beautiful beastie on its molecular level. If it's here, and hasn't teleported, _it has_ to show up." Tony was busy removing his helmet and gauntlet and shouting orders to JARVIS over comm. He broke for a second to address the team, a small Alan wrench between his lips. "I just have to do a fly-by, sweep some lasers, take a selfie, pick the right filter, and fly back." He was keeping his tone lighthearted, and for those SHIELD agents who didn't know any better, they believed it. The Coulson and his team began the fifty yard stroll back to the SHIELD mobile HQ, discussing attack strategies. The Avengers resigned to plant themselves in the dirt next to Tony, studying him only as friends are wont to do.

"Tony." Clint's voice was unusually small. "Man, I don't like this. Something feels off." He cast a suspicious and uneasy look to the empty streets of the town. The perimeter was over three hundred yards away from the fight, but even Tony couldn't deny that the hairs on his neck were at full attention.

"Barton, everything's fine. If it is still here, it's invisible. To maintain that invisibility, it has to be using up a lot of energy _and_ standing perfectly still. The scanner can detect its shape, but the only thing that will tell us where to hit it will be its movements. Eventually, we will need to draw it out…." The engineer paused, removing the Alan wrench from his lips and replacing it with a smirk. "I need to make it tick."

"Stark, No." Steve was glaring at him. "We've set up a formation, now we wait it out. If what you say is true, it will run out of energy. From there, when it's exhausted, we can take it down."

"Rogers is right, Tony." Widow wasn't usually one to chime in; but if she felt the need, it was probably serious. "This isn't the kind of monster you poke with a stick and walk away from. You said it yourself, we don't know what this thing can do. Last resort, we'll call in Banner."

Tony was getting annoyed. "As much as I love the guy, the Hulk would level this place. This isn't Manhattan – these people can't rebuild in a month." He watched both Steve and Natasha look to the ground – they knew he was right. "We have no idea how long it might take for Scorpio, here, to run out of juice – we could be stuck in Arizona for days!

Steve's voice was firm. "Then we will be here for days – but you will not get any closer to that thing, understood? That's an order."

Well, shit. Now he'd gone and done it.

" _Oh_ … an _order_ , is it?" Everyone saw Tony's shoulders square up.

Tony was natural defiant of Steve, despite their close friendship – his therapist blamed it on authority issues and his superiority complex. Steve blamed it on Howard, though he would never admit it.

Tony just blamed it the fact that Steve could be a tool.

Regardless, when the two men clashed, the rest of the team felt the aftershocks.

"Hey, Bucket Head, now isn't the time." Clint was calmly checking arrowhead after arrowhead. He had undoubtedly already accepted the fact that they would be setting up residence to wait it out.

"Isn't the time? Oh, on the contrary my fine, feathered friend - now is the time. We have this thing on the complete defensive, and you want to wait until it decides it's ready to fight again?" Tony was being incredibly stubborn. "Look, all I need to do is get close enough for a laser sweep – the lights will outline its profile, I'll do the rest!" He flexed his gauntlets, prepping for takeoff.

Steve stepped towards him. "Stark, I know you too well. You're going to go in there, guns blazing, and try to be a hero. I refuse to let you use yourself as bait."

"I don't _try_ to be anything – I am a hero, watch the news, check my twitter-"

"Tony, I'm serious."

"Hey, it's a free country! Thanks in large part to you, yourself. Thank you for your service, by the w-"

"Tony, STOP." Steve was unyielding. "You know _very well_ that could get yourself killed - you could get someone else killed! Do you want that on your conscience?"

"You damn well know that that is the last thing I want, Rogers." Flickers of hurt flashed across the engineer's features, but were quickly swallowed by the steeliness of his stubborn gaze. "But I know I'm right." And he stood to takeoff, the sounds of reconfiguration completion ringing in his helmet.

"Tony, you could get us all killed!"

In a swift second, the Tony's faceplate snapped down, and his metallic voice left no room for argument. "Then stay out of the way."

"STARK!"

But Tony was already flying into the air, holding out his wrist and letting the laser work its magic. The beams swept the ground, registering the landscape and profile of everything underneath it. The engineer could hear his teammates behind him, yelling at him to come back – there voices were muffled and tinny since he had silenced them on his comm. JARVIS had immediately voiced his own disapproval, but Tony had threatened to put him on mute as well, so the AI had resigned to helping his creator in begrudging silence.

Look, Tony figured if he could get the monster to so much as _sneeze_ , its cover would be blown and it would come back out to play. It was hurt and tired, and if they didn't finish it now, it could slink away in the night and be gone forever. If that happened, if they failed, thousands of civilians could be in danger. Tony would not let that happen.

He rode high in the air and dive-bombed over the spot where the monster had stood mere minutes ago, before it went all DEFCON 1. His gauntlet steadily spearheaded him through the air, the lasers locking and loading, registering everything that he could and couldn't see. In seconds, the small blip on his readings turned into a bigger blip.

 _Gotcha._

Gotta love those fucking Blips.

Tony pulled up, settling almost a hundred feet above the monster's head (well, at least where he figured the head was), in a controlled hover. He watched the photons configure a three-dimensional scatter plot, layering laser data in steps until the distinct outline of a giant scorpion was plastered on the screen.

It was still here.

The thousands of little green dots relayed the monster's exact location and orientation for the superhero, and he adjusted his thrusters until he was directly above the monster's skull. For the first time in a few minutes, he turned his comm back on.

"Hey, guys, rip me a new one later, will ya? But our friend has not left the building. I repeat, Scorpio is still here."

Steve, who wanted nothing more than to scream at the shorter man, ground his jaw and took a deep breath. Now was not the time. "Coordinates?" came his curt voice.

Stark knew SHIELD would be launching a pinpoint missile within minutes specially designed for powerful, but controlled, blasts. It would do the least amount of damage to its surroundings while doing maximum damage to its target. Tony would know, he designed it. He read the exact latitude and longitude of the monster over the comm. He also rattled off the general dimensions of the enemy, any spots that looked weaker than others, armored plating, etc.

Steve would never admit it, but the information Tony was supplying was vital. "Alright, Stark. Mission accomplished. Now get out of there. SHIELD is going to launch that controlled missile unit to those exact coordinates in T-minus 120 seconds, and I don't recommend a front row seat."

"Don't worry, dear, I'll be home in a minute." Tony snarled, and just as he was about to take off to return to the perimeter, a feeling in his gut told him to scan one last time to make sure the monster was still static.

The lasers would take less than thirty seconds, he figured, and it would be worth it if a giant scorpion had managed to move six feet to the left. With the armored plating, Tony doubted anything less than a direct shot would kill it.

"I'm gonna do a last sweep and make sure the coordinates haven't changed. Be out in half a minute."

"Stark…" Steve was hesitant.

Tony huffed, still slightly angry at Steve. "Despite what you might think, Stevie, I'm being thorough, not reckless." And he muted the comms once more.

Steve cast his eyes down at the mute tone. His voice was quiet, though he knew Stark couldn't hear him. "With you, Stark, it's always a bit of both."

Back in air space, Tony backtracked slightly, his scanners doing a last minute recon.

Thirty seconds later, as promised, the results popped up on his interface.

Tony sucked in a breath. "Oh shit."

It was Barton who responded. His voice came steady and even, in the background Tony could hear Steve speaking assertively with an agent. "Tony," The archer began. "What's wrong?"

"Well, Lobster Shack over here has adjusted his position. He's moving."

"Too far for missiles?"

"No, he's still well in range, it's just that-" Tony swept another time with his lasers. "The image is blurry, meaning he's moving as I'm reading. He's not going fast by any means, but it could throw off the launch coordinates by a few fractions of a degree. We can't risk the missile if we don't have a direct shot."

"I don't suppose you can ask him nicely to sit still?"

Tony brought a finger to his chin, mockingly pondering. "Clint, I'm gonna have to say no to that one."

"Well, worth a shot."

"Iron Man, status update?" Phil Coulson interrupted the chatter.

"Phil! How rude, Mr. Barton and I were having a convers-"

"Mr. Stark, you need to clear the vicinity immediately."

All work, no play.

"Phil, I would love to, believe me, but we have an issue. The target is moving." The engineer explained what he was observing.

"In what direction, Mr. Stark? Can we extrapolate the coordinates out and meet it at a location with the missile?"

"No can do, Phil. I'd need more data points. We have no idea if he's going to stop or pick up speed or veer left or veer right or do the hokey pokey or turn himself around."

Coulson's exasperation could be felt through the comm. "Mr. Stark, please give us something we can use. We need to stop the missile if we can't pinpoint its location."

"No, Coulson, fire it. I can get our friend to those coordinates. How long do I have?"

"53 seconds."

"What? That's like, 52 seconds more than I need!" He heard Barton chuckle.

"48 Seconds, Mr. Stark."

"Alright, Alright, I get it."

Tony switched his visual guards to register real-time photon mapping, like night vision inside a pixelated video game. His arms in front of him were mapped outlines of a million green dots. It was trippy, for sure, but it did allow him to see their friend.

"40 seconds, Mr. Stark."

"Coulson, you're making me nervous. JARVIS, throw the countdown on the screen, Phil, shut up."

"Noted, Mr. Stark."

Ton sighed, diving back down to street level. He fired a ring of bullets in front of the monster's path, causing it to halt. The billions of green pinpoints shuddered as the monster changed direction.

"I've got him turning back around, he's back tracking." The engineer tried to ignore the bead of sweat falling down his neck as the timer beeped a 35 second warning.

He fired a few more rounds, taking deep breaths to keep himself steady. The monster was just fifteen feet from a direct hit. Tony just needed a few more carefully placed shots in the dirt and –

Shit.

He was out. Completely. How…Tony Stark never ran out of bullets…

"Dammit!" Tony cursed himself, realizing just how much ammunition he had unloaded when they got there. When he said he gave it everything…he accidentally gave it everything.

"Coulson, I'm out of ammunition, I'm gonna have to hit the ground."

"We'll stop the missile, Mr. Stark."

"NO, NO!" shouted. "Do not stop the missile, I can do it."

"Mr. Stark, you only have 25 seconds."

"Coulson, do NOT stop the missile. I can get him there."

There was a pause. "Understood Mr. Stark."

Tony closed his eyes for a split second, glad that Coulson could trust him. In a flash, though, a shout and kerfuffle rang through the headset, so loud that Tony winced into his earpiece. Steve Rogers' voice shouted from somewhere in the background.

" _YOU LET…WHAT? WHAT…MEAN…MISSILE…STOP IT NOW…COULSON!"_

"Tell Steve I don't have time to sooth his anxious old bones, right now, okay?"

Suddenly, there was the sound of someone getting pushed to the ground, and a very flustered Steve grabbed the mic. His voice was clear and pissed. "Anthony Stark, get out of there right now. Stark. STARK? STARK!"

Tony wasn't replying, he didn't have the time.

Instead, the team watched from the perimeter as he landed on the ground, takeoff clock at 10 seconds, and punched with all his might into what looked like empty air. They all jumped as his gauntlet collided into an invisible solid mass. His fists continued at a ruthless pace and force, pounding the beast as monstrous wails filled the air. In seconds, the beast flickered back into sight for all to see, and they watched it back away from Tony the last few feet before bracing itself for offense.

Tony had timed it perfectly.

The missile prepared to launch from the perimeter, locked onto the coordinates where the monster now stood completely oblivious. Tony watched the propellants on the missile ignite in its cradle, getting ready to fly through the air. The radio waves were filled with orders for Tony to run.

Tony placed one more solid punch on the hind quarters of the monster, narrowly dodging its tail as it sliced through the empty space, and bent his knees to take off. This missile would land in less than 10 seconds, and Tony needed to reach a safe altitude. He kicked off and the monster roared.

He was fifteen feet in the air when the Scorpion's right pincer locked onto his ankle. The titanium alloy immediately creased, though to its credit, didn't break. Tony let out a startled yelp and sputtered out midflight, crashing hard onto the ground. The monster wasted no time, picking him up and slamming him into the pavement so hard that Tony saw stars. Past the ringing in his ears, he could vaguely hear the shouts and cries of SHIELD agents trying to disable the missile, but Tony had designed that missile. He knew that once the propellants were ignited, it was simple physics. There were no take-backs in automated warfare.

In a split second, Tony Stark had accepted his fate. He was going to get blown to bits next to a jacked up scorpion. He shut his eyes as the scorpion wrapped its second pincer around his chest and squeezed. Tony felt his chest snapping, and let out a sickening scream. The rocket ripped through the sky, its shrill whistle drawing closer and closer.

* * *

Barton knew something was wrong the second Tony prepared for takeoff. He could feel it. When he saw the monster bringing its claw around from behind for a surprise attack, he wished he could say he was shocked - but honestly, with their luck, Barton was expecting it. However, the archer was genuinely horrified when that pincer clamped down around Tony's ankle, ripping him to the ground.

Clint didn't hesitate for another second before he was sprinting past the barricade of the perimeter. He winced only when Natasha started screaming his name.

He knew she would understand.

Orders came in the form of panicked shouts in his hearing aids – the aids had been presents from Stark, he remembered. Convenient when he wanted to hear the radio transmissions, but not right now. Mid sprint, he flung both of his hearing aids to the side and was enveloped in immediate, familiar silence.

At the top of his lungs, he shouted for Stark to get down, but based on the way the monster was flinging him into the concrete, he doubted Stark was incredibly aware of much of anything else.

Even without his hearing aids, he felt the static and hum of the missile in the air. Clint was a highly intelligent man, despite his shenanigans. Even he knew that a direct hit from a missile, coupled with monster-induced damage, would be unsurvivable for Tony – even in the suit. The missile couldn't be stopped at the launch pad, so it needed to be stopped in the air.

He ran as close to the monster as he dared, turned, and notched his most powerful exploding arrowhead. He stood, poised - like the statue of _Artemis the Hunter_ that Tash had loved so much when they toured the Louvre. (Sure, they had spent the next twenty minutes lightheartedly playing "how would you steal it", but it had been one of the best afternoons of his life.)

He watched the missile coming closer and closer, and he lined up his shot. He needed to detonate the missile close enough to distract the monster so Tony could get free, but not close enough that Tony would be killed.

Clint had no delusions about his own miniscule chances of survival.

This was it. He knew in another second, his small window would open. With one fleeting thought, he turned his head slightly to look at Tony. The man's faceplate had been ripped off and blood streamed from a gash in his hairline. He was screaming at Barton, begging him. Hawkeye didn't have time to read his lips, but there was no need. The message was clear enough.

His pleading expression almost broke Clint's heart.

Taking one last bracing breath, the archer pulled back on his bow and released the arrow, immediately turning and ducking, curling into a ball on the pavement as the strike found home. There was a moment of weightlessness, as if the earth was taking a great breath in - and then the planet shook, threatening to fall apart as a fireball blanketed the street, raining down upon them.

True to Barton's prediction, the beast startled, releasing Tony long enough for the battered engineer to kick its pincers away and propel himself along the ground, sparks flying, until he was a safe forty feet away, breathing heavily and choking on dust and ash.

The percussion of the explosion had been devastating, shattering windows and doors, ripping street signs from the ground, and mutilating a few stray cars. It was a miracle that Tony's glazed eyes even found the crumpled form of the archer, motionless, blown from the street to the side of a building.

Tony didn't stop to evaluate Barton – he didn't even stop to see if he was alive, because he had to be. Barton had to be alive. Barton couldn't die for him. He wasn't allowed.

Tony scooped him in his arms, refusing to even look at him, and flew almost drunkenly to the bounds of the perimeter, where he used every ounce of his remaining strength to deposit his best friend soft as a feather onto the dusty ground. In a second, they were swarmed.

For Tony, everything was a faint humming. There were voices everywhere, some pushing past him, some poking and prodding him, some threatening him, some just breathing heavily. He couldn't hear any of them, didn't recognize a single voice- and didn't care to recognize them, either.

He didn't need to hear about how wrong he'd been. Tony didn't need to see the "I Told You So" look from Rogers. He didn't need to the see the hatred and blame in Natasha's glare. He didn't want Coulson's indifferent disdain. He didn't need Bruce's agonizingly empathetic pat on the shoulder because he, too, knew what it felt like to be a monster.

Tony didn't want to be that monster – he had never wanted to be. Yet here he was, standing alone in bloody battle armor, his teammate lying in the cold dirt, and it was all his fault.

Tony knew it was his fault – and he didn't need anybody else reminding him of it. Nor did he want their pity. As tears stung at the engineer's eyes, he swiveled his head away from the crowds, shaking off the hands that checked him over. He didn't give a fuck who they were, he shoved away, probably using more force than was necessary.

One pair of hands held on, stronger than the rest, and Tony tried to spin away, still not really hearing and not really present in his surroundings. The grip held fast, and the humming in his ears rose and fell with familiar agitation and stress – a fuzzy image of Steve crept into Tony's mind, but he knew that that was impossible – this worried voice couldn't belong to Steve. Tony had just ruined everything – the mission, the team, their friendship. Steve hated him now. They all did.

Tony heard his name – once, then twice - muffled as it was, and then…something about him _being okay_.

Tony snapped.

 _Me? Okay? Are they really asking me if I'm fucking okay? Barton is on the ground, blown to hell, and it's all my fault but no, they can't outwardly show just how much they hate me now – they have to ask if I'm_ okay _. They have to pretend as if I'm not a piece of shit. They have to pretend that they give a damn._

It disgusted him.

One final glance down at the archer's blood dripping from his gauntlets and Tony had had enough.

Tony wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to drink until his liver retired and pump every poison known to man through his veins. He wanted to throw himself off the tallest building he could find, but not in Manhattan – he couldn't go back there, not now, probably not ever. SHIELD could keep his skyscraper, for all he cared, just as long as Tony was allowed to live the rest of his miserable life without ever making eye contact with any of them ever again.

Tony needed to go.

He opened his mouth to shout some excuse for leaving but all that came out were non-coherent gasps and half choked apologies. He screamed that he was fine, that he didn't need help, yet all the while tears streaked white trails down his ashen cheeks. Tony didn't realize that he had been crying until he unclenched his eyelids and everything was misty. When had he even closed his eyes? His voice was raw and his face was blistered from the heat of the explosion, and he was so, so dizzy, and all he wanted was to lie down in the sand and never get up; but he just…he needed to leave.

He must have sounded like a dying animal because the hands that had held him so firmly to this point released him as if they had touched a hot stove top. The moment Tony was free, he took off, the suit shooting off at a terrible angle because Tony's whole body was shaking to the point where he had to put the Mark IV on autopilot to gain any real altitude or direction. He clamped his damaged faceplate back into place and choked orders to JARVIS. After five minutes, the AI actually _did_ get muted after insisting so many times that _Sir turn around and get medically cleared_.

Tony didn't need any help, it was Barton who needed it. Tony wouldn't sit there and waste everyone's time with his bumps and bruises while his best friend was a comatose pile of broken bones and burns and – and – and….and he was probably dead.

Tony let go. The sobs wracked his chest and guilt weighed so heavily on him he thought his bones would snap underneath it all. He cried at cruising altitude and he cried when the California coastline came into view. He was dizzy with tears and his face was flushed. He landed in the Malibu House garage and fell straight to the floor, his whole body tingling with pain and weak beyond belief.

Tony didn't even bother to crawl to his couch, nor did he make the effort to get out of the suit. The beach house didn't have a landing system to strip him of the gear the way the Avenger's building did – Tony was on his own.

Sevres him right anyway, He didn't deserve help. He deserved to sleep on the cement in a cold metal suit, his own blood crusting up half his face. He hoped nobody ever found him.

He deserved this.

Tony shut his eyes, dreading sleep but welcoming its release from reality.

He should have known that all he would see behind his eyelids was Barton's dead stare.

Accusing him.

Hating him.

Blaming him.

* * *

Tony awoke in a sweat. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping, but he couldn't stomach another second of his brain being allowed to run free. His body was aflame with aches and a possible fever, and his throat felt like sandpaper.

Tony glanced groggily at a wall mounted clock. It read 4 am.

Gingerly, his sore bones protesting the six hours spent on the shop floor in a titanium cocoon, Tony Stark rose from the floor, grinding his teeth as his injuries announced themselves. With a lot of cursing and yelping, he managed to strip himself of his armor, casting it all into an unceremonious pile in the corner, as if it were nothing better than scrap.

He flexed his extremities, glad to find nothing broken, just royally fucked up. The ankle that had found its way into the Scorpion King's jaws back in Arizona was the size of a balloon, but thankfully just sprained and ripped to shit.

Tony limped his way to the elevator in the basement and hazily recalled what floor his bedroom was on – it had been years since he had stayed in his Malibu house. Back before the Avengers, back before he convinced himself he could be a hero.

The elevator gave an annoyingly cheery _ding_ when the fourth floor doors slid open. He clapped twice, wincing again, and watched as his familiar apartment settings whirred to life. The holographic display rose onto the window, the fireplace came roaring to life, the lights adjusted to fit his alertness levels, and JARVIS (now graciously unmuted) greeted Tony with a quiet _Good Morning, Sir._ The AI said nothing else. Smart AI.

When the autopilot course had been set back in Arizona, JARVIS had run his protocol and had the house prepared for inhabitance. Maids and robots alike had worked to clear dust and vacuum rugs, setting out food and clean clothing - all to please Mr. Stark.

Tony almost wished they hadn't – he deserved some dusty coffin of a house. No matter- he wouldn't be here long. He would shower, sleep 'til noon, pack a bag, grab his least flashy car, and try to drop off the face of the planet. He would save the Avengers the trouble of kicking him out.

Tony limped his way through his room into his master bath. He stripped himself off his remaining, tattered and bloodied clothes, a colorful slew of expletives leaving his mouth with every wrong twist of his torso.

He studied himself in the mirror, half horrified and half pleased with how absolutely terrible he looked.

His face was haggard – unshaven, at the least, but also covered in dust, cracked blisters from the explosion, and specks of dried blood. The left side of his hairline was caked in deep burgundy from the nasty gash he had received when his face had been slammed three feet down into concrete. His chest was a mess of splotches and deep black bruises. He turned to see his back, moved too quickly, and held onto the sink for dear life as his vision blacked out in searing pain. More careful inspection proved that he had initially been wrong – something _was_ broken. About three ribs on his right side were completely popped out and were proudly sporting a palette of vibrant colors.

"Shit…" Tony mumbled. He carefully removed his pants, minding his ankle, and stepped into the shower, careful not to slip.

He stood underneath his showerhead and turned the spout, not bothering to let it warm up first. He was naked, shivering in the belligerent cold of the water. Completely vulnerable. Freezing. In pain. Exhausted. Disoriented. Filthy. Bloody. Miserable.

And he deserved all of it.

When he couldn't take the cold any longer, Tony let out a cry and cranked the temperature up as hot as he could stand, letting the scalding hot water pink his skin and leave his shoulders a bright red. His shivering turned to groans as he roughly soaped his mop of brown hair and accidentally reopened the gash on his forehead. Red flowed down his body and swirled tauntingly around the drain.

The responsible thing to do would be to get stitches.

The Tony think to do would be to stick his cleanest dishtowel on it, grab a bottle of Grey Goose, and hope for the best.

The engineer ran soap over his body, cleaning his cuts and scrapes, and grinding his teeth in agony when he pulled too hard on his ribs. He soaped and sponged and soaped again, long after the dirt and blood were gone. He was desperately cleaning himself – ridding his body of its filth. The filth on the outside and the inside.

The shower was cathartic and refreshing, and soon Tony was in his bedroom, pulling on loose sweatpants. His fatigue struck him again with a vengeance, and with a last look at the clock, Tony set an alarm for noon. That would give him a good 6 hours of rest for his body to recover enough to allow for a hard day and night of driving. He didn't know where he would go, but he knew it would be far away.

Tony shut his eyes, his head sinking deep into the Egyptian pillows of his King Size bed, and he felt a familiar lump in his throat. All thoughts returned to the moment Tony had seen Clint – Standing there, so brave and poised, so ready to fucking _die._ The bastardjust turned and fired at a missile with a damn arrow. Simple as that. That's easy for Barton to do – to be a hero. Did he even think about what it would mean for Tony? Did he ever stop and think that maybe – JUST MAYBE, everyone on the team would rather that Barton lived and Tony died, and that he had doomed the _wonderful Iron Man_ to a future where nobody could stand to look at him, let alone work alongside him? The Avengers were over. Done. Finished.

Tony sighed. He really shouldn't be so surprised that it ended like this.

After all, he had just been playing at a dream. He knew it would never last.

Tony tossed in his bed, wincing at the pain, but refusing to take anything for it. He needed to suffer. He needed every little bit of penitence he could get.

He lay back in the bed, kicking restlessly at his covers. They were too warm.

The cool pillow felt crisp against his hot forehead. A stray bead of sweat rolled down Tony's neck and he realized… wow, he actually was quite piqued. Quite feverish actually. He groggily brought a hand up to feel his forehead and was startled to see how badly his arm was shaking.

No, no, no, he couldn't be seriously injured. He had to leave – he had to get out of here. If he stayed, they would send a quinjet with SHIELD agents to take him back to Manhattan. Then he would have to see his friends. They would have to see him. Tony didn't want to do that to them.

The engineer had to try three times to make any sound come from his throat at all, but when it finally did, he had to wince at the grating sound of it. "J?" His voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

" _Yes, Sir?"_

"J, run…run a diagnostics on me, fix me, do whatever. Just have DUM-E bring me up a Tylenol and a glass of water, ok?"

" _Right away, Sir."_

"Hmmm." Tony nodded his approval and hummed in his throat, closing his eyes. He could hear JARVIS' scanners whirring quietly, using lasers to take his temperature, measure tissue density, look for inflammation, all that jazz. _Modern medicine and stuff - watch the Discovery Channel, kids_.

Several minutes went by, and Tony admittedly almost drifted off to sleep, but then his door was nudged open, and the familiar sound of Servo motors and silicate treads on hardwood floors almost made him smile.

" _BurrrrrRR?"_ The whine of the robot and a twist of its head made Tony's lips twitch upwards.

"Hey, pal." He whispered.

The robot extended its actuator and dropped two Tylenol tablets into his creator's clammy hand and held up a glass of water for him to take when he was ready. Tony threw back the pills into his mouth and shakily sipped on his beverage, thanking his robot quietly.

As softly as he had arrived, DUM-E wheeled himself out of Tony's room, but beeped a few times without moving to let Tony know he would stay camped for the night in the hallway – just in case he was needed.

"Good boy." Tony licked his lips a few more times; the water had been a welcome relief from his parchedness. The room fell comfortably silent.

" _Sir?"_ JARVIS spoke up softly.

"Hm? Are the diagnostics done, J?"

" _Not quite yet, sir, but I am obligated to inform you that you have twenty-seven missed calls to your cellular phone – the majority of which are from Captain Rog-"_

"No thanks, JARVIS. If I wanted to speak to them I would call back, I don't need the details."

" _Sir, perhaps if you listened to one of the voicemails, your mind may be changed."_

"No, J. Absolutely not. Erase my inbox."

" _Sir, perhaps-"_

"I said no, J."

" _But it might lift your spirits to hear from-"_

"JARVIS, I'm not kidding."

" _Sir, if I may-"_

"NO, JARVIS. YOU MAY NOT." Tony shot up in bed, fury and frustration scrawled over his features, too late remembering his broken ribs. "FUCK!" He screamed, throwing himself back down into the sheets, his chest crunching and popping. "Dammit…just…JARVIS, just finish diagnostics and get me the hell out of here. I'm going to bed. If anyone calls again, send them a text that says I don't need their help, that I'm fine, and that they can leave me alone, it's ok, they never have to see me again." Tony paused, letting it sink in to the AI that he wasn't kidding. "Kapeesh?"

" _Understood, Sir."_

"Good."

Tony felt the hairs stand up across his body as the final lasers swept his form. He could picture the charts and analyses, and he found small comforts within his world of numbers.

Soon after, JARVIS was done and listing off his general assessments.

" _Sir, based on the extent of you ribcage damage, as well as your multitude of traumatic injuries, coupled with your climbing fever, I would strongly recommend visiting a health professional or contacting a member of your team to come retrieve you. SHIELD medical would be much better equipped to treat you than DUM-E and I."_

"Absolutely not, JARVIS, but thanks for the sentiment."

There was a slight pause as the AI recalled what had transpired in his last attempts at persuading his creator, and the computer settled for a concession.

" _Very well, Sir. Have a good rest. I shall wake you at midday."_

* * *

Six hours later, and a gentle chime alarm resonated in Tony Stark's private Malibu beach house master bedroom.

The alarm was neither deactivated nor stalled, so it continued.

After three minutes, it shut off, resorting to an automatic snooze.

After fifteen minutes, the alarm sounded again, this time resorting to a traditional beeping sound, foregoing the gentle wake up call.

Nothing in the house stirred to stop it. Nobody grumbled from the bedroom, demanding that a cappuccino be brought to the bedside before that person would even _consider_ getting out of bed.

There was just a heavy silence.

After 30 minutes, the alarm ceased its self-snoozing and deactivated, leaving an AI to keep the house running smoothly and on schedule.

" _Sir? Sir, if you wish to avoid the worst highway traffic, you should get on the road inexactly 14 minutes. Get up now, or you will be late."_

There was nothing.

" _Sir?_

Silence from the master bedroom.

JARVIS, being JARVIS, went into monitoring mode almost immediately. His digital persona hastily measured all of his creator's vitals, and projected them onto a graphic analysis for easier interpretation. His artificial brain did not like what it was artificially seeing.

" _Sir, I must ask you to WAKE UP NOW."_ JARVIS' voice rang loudly and clearly, more commanding than ever before.

A small stir and a groan came from the bed, though Tony's form was almost entirely covered by blankets.

Being commandeered by JARVIS, DUM-E rushed into the room and took hold of the creator's coverlets, wrenching them back to get visual confirmation that Sir was alright.

He wasn't.

The moment the comforter left his body, Tony Stark gave a high pitched whine and a dangerous shiver. His face was snow white save for a lethal flush along his cheekbones. Sweat had soaked through his clothes into his fine Italian sheets. His face was hollowed and dried spittle was white and crusty at the corners of his chapped lips. His frame shook and his bruised chest was almost entirely purple. He was sunken and clammy and rancid and barely conscious.

"J-Jar..s..?…" his voice was so small.

" _Sir, I am contacting local medical rescue teams. They will be here shortly."_

"N-no, J…no ambul'n's…no, th's n order."

" _Sir, while I do not wish to go around you, I am programmed to protect you at all costs. If I deem your behavior to be reckless, I have avenues to protect you."_

"Not..if…'give…you a direc've code…"

" _Sir, please, I am only trying to help you."_

"All…I need…is some water. J' some water. 'M fine." Tony's gaze was almost completely fogged over with fever. His judgement was as clouded as his senses. He cast a haphazard look to his purpling chest.

"Oh…act'lly…J…I think…I 'ave some int'nal bleedin', pal."

" _I have confirmed this, Sir. With permission, I will contact emergency services posthaste."_

There was a pause.

"No." And Tony closed his eyes.

" _Sir, I must insist."_

"Directive…Order…121...7…19...91…conf'rm." Tony had to list the numbers between breaths, but he completed the directive before JARVIS could disobey. The projected screen of JARVIS' interface turned a bright blue, and a holographic padlock materialized in the center, clicking into place. He had just shut down the AI's emergency protocol. It was like a medical override.

A digital D.N.R.

Tony had seen the screen as soon as he'd woken up. Based on the analysis JARVIS had thrown up on the hologram, Tony guessed he had about another half hour of consciousness, and then about an hour until he…wasn't.

The whole house seemed to come to a screeching halt, as if frozen in time. The only sound was the clicking of the stainless steel clock from the kitchen hallway and Tony Stark's labored breathing.

" _Sir…"_ The AI spoke so quietly, Tony almost thought he had imagined it. _"Sir, please don't do this."_

Tony licked his dry lips, a single tear welling in the corner of his eye. "JARVIS, you've been… a _great_ friend to me."

" _Considering you made me that way, Sir, you're only flattering yourself."_

Tony chuckled lightly, grimacing at the jarring action. "True, pal. True." He tried to shift slightly, to alleviate some of the pressure on his chest, but nothing was helping.

He would just have to wait it out.

"I'll…I'll be dead soon, pal." It was a soft spoken fact. No remorse, no fear, just a fact.

The AI said nothing.

"It serves…me right, too. I'll see…Barton on the other side… I s'pose. We've both….got cozy spots waitin' for… us 'n hell." He smirked slightly.

" _Sir, we have no proof that Agent Barton is dead_."

"We have no…proof…he isn't." He turned his head to the side.

" _If you returned the Captain's calls, you might find -"_

"No, J. It wouldn't….matter anyway."

" _But if Agent Barton was alive…would you lift the directive, Sir?"_

Tony shook his head almost sadly. "No, J…Still can't go back. Th-They'll hate me, JARVIS. They'll hate me for…the rest of…my life. I might…'s well just go to sleep…and not wake up…" Tony was trying not to cry, and only somewhat succeeding. "Besides, I do more harm than good."

" _Sir, this is the fever talking. Please. Lift the directive."_

There was another silence in the house. Tony closed his eyes, squeezing out some small tears. JARVIS was immediately alert.

" _Sir, have you lost consciousness? Please respond."_

Tony sighed, chuckling slightly. "No…'m still…right 'ere…JARVIS…"

If an AI could sigh with relief, he would have right then and there.

Just as the computer was about to reply, a small chirping sound interrupted him. It was a ringtone.

" _Sir, you have an incoming call from Captain Rogers. This will be the 34_ _th_ _time he has called. Would you like to send him to voicemail?"_ As Tony contemplated, the chirping continued.

"Actually…J…" Tony paused, and then decided he was right. "Answer the phone. Say nothing, just…let me do…what I can."

" _Very well, sir."_

There was a small _blip_ and the projection screen notified Tony that he was now in a live phone call with Steve. Tony took a deep breath, trying to make himself sound as strong and devil-may-care as possible. What actually came out was slightly more pathetic, but it would have to do.

"Steve…what d'you want?"

" _TONY? ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! IS THAT YOU?!"_

Tony flinched at the sheer volume. "Jesus Chr-Yes, Steve…Who…else picks up m' phone?"

" _LATELY?! NOBODY PICKS UP YOUR DAMN PHONE – ESPECIALLY NOT YOU_." Steve was absolutely seething.

"So…so I missed a few calls…"

" _THIRTY OF THEM."_

Tony sighed, closing his eyes tightly. His head was feeling a little fuzzy and his chest didn't even hurt that badly anymore and…and…

Oh no.

More tears threatened at Tony's eyes as a realization dawned on him. The lump in his throat grew, and a previously unknown lump of fear settled in his stomach.

"J…JARVIS, please mute Captain Rogers…for a moment…" Tony was struggling more and more to get a full breath.

" _Oh, nononono, Stark. Don't you dare, DON'T YOU DARE MUTE ME RI-"_ **CLICK.**

" _Sir, what is wrong?"_ The AI's voice was laced with concern.

Tony's chin quivered, and he put on a brave face and a half smile that faltered as soon as he began to speak. For the first time in a long time, Tony Stark looked like a scared little boy.

"JARVIS, I, uhm…I c-can't feel my legs." He coughed, bracingly. "Yah, I- I, hm hm, I cannot…feel…my legs, so uh, just…just make it a quick call, alright, just…tell Captain Rogers that… I'm busy with whatever and I'm fine. Just tell him I'm fine." Tony sucked in breath after breath, feeling the dangerous combination of panic and lightheadedness start to take over.

" _You wish me to lie, Sir? To disobey one of my directives?"_

Tony's eyes were suddenly hazed with feverish fear, masked behind his rage.

"Yes, JARVIS. Lie! _**Disobey**_! Lie to Captain Rogers. Lie to everyone. Don't tell anyone I'm here until I've been dead for a few days so that when they walk in they have to _smell my rotting, Italian corpse-_ ALRIGHT?!"His chest was rising and falling sporadically, his tone a spitting fury between ground teeth.

He could hear a pin drop…

…And static from the phone line?

But that meant….

 _People were listening on the other end._

Tony froze. He glared up at JARVIS' interface.

Silence….and then -

" _T-Tony?"_ That one word in that one voice saturated the whole room. Quiet, and fragile, and scared, and confused, and hurt, and tired, and…and…

" _Clint?"_ Tony choked back a sob, clutching one hand to his damp forehead and wrapping his other arm around his shattered ribcage.

" _Tony…what….What is happening?"_

Tony couldn't even form words.

" _Are you alright?"_

Suddenly his voice caught up with the rest of him. "Clint, oh god, what I did… I-I can't….Clint I'm so sorry I-" Tony was on the brink of hyperventilating.

This was too much. How had JARVIS? - How was Clint alive and talking? How had any of this happened? How…

" _Tony, no, stop that."_ Clint was firm. _"Stop that right now. I did what I had to do, and none of it is your fault. I made a choice. I know you, Stark. You're going to blame yourself for this no matter what I say, but nobody here blames you."_ He stopped. _"Actually, if we're being honest, Natasha is much madder at me that she is at you. Tell him, Nat."_ There was a jostle as a phone was passed.

Tash's cool voice echoed around the room. Tony closed his eyes. _"It's true, Tony. He's the idiot, you were just unlucky."_

Somewhere in the back of the room, Bruce piped up with something along the lines of: " _That's the understatement of the century"_ to which Nat cuffed him upside the head.

" _Tony, let Steve come get you. If you're hurt, we can bring you home. He told me you looked half dead, and you just spirited yourself away into the sky. You didn't tell anybody where you were going, what you were doing – Tony, you scared us."_

Tony let his head fall back against his pillows, his brain in emotional turmoil. He felt his fever spiking again, and as fresh sweat seeped from hi already dehydrated body, he felt his heartbeat fluttering.

"Clint…"

" _Yah, Tony?"_

"I thought I…I killed you." And he began to shake, but not from the cold nor from the exertion. He shook from fear and pain and loss. "I thought you… would all hate me, you would never… forgive…me." The phone jostled once more, and from the tinny sound of Barton's voice, Tony could tell he was on speaker. "I…I am so…so, so sorry to all of you…"

Steve answered this time _. "Tony, its ok, just tell us where you are and we'll come get you."_

" _Don't run away from it, pal."_ Bruce, kindliness in his voice apparent.

Barton, too. _"Just let us help, Tony."_

Natasha. " _Please."_

Tony cast his eyes to the ceiling, his broken frame growing number and number. He had to make a choice, now, before he lost consciousness. He had to choose.

On one hand, he might tell them where he was, then get his hopes up that he would survive, but die anyway.

On the other hand, he could not tell them where he was, and die for sure.

Either way, he could die. One was scarier than the other.

But never let it be said that Tony Stark was a little bitch.

"Oh, fuck it…I'm…. I'm in Malibu….M' house in Malibu."

Immediately, he could hear cheap plastic hospital chairs scraping back on a floor and people rushing to collect their things.

Tony wiped another cold layer of sweat from his face, his eyes rolling back into his head. "But…guys…wait…"

All motion stopped. "I…I.." Tony sobbed once, choked it back. "I don't think…you might not…make it…" Everyone on the other line felt their hearts break in two.

" _Yes we will, Tony. We always do."_ Steve, ever the believer. Always so hopeful. " _You just gotta trust us."_

"Just in case…you…don't…" Tony's breaths were so labored, so painful. "I am sorry. For…this…"

" _No Tony, just hang on, we're leaving from Arizona State Hospital on the quinjet in two minutes, we can be in Malibu within the hour, and we'll be there buddy, its ok. You'll be fine. We're coming. You're okay. You're okay…"_

And just like that the phone call ended.

Steve's words echoed in Tony's fevered brain.

 _You're okay…_

Tony let out a small cry, a hiccup and a sharp inhale. His vision started to dance, and blackness crept at the edges of his sight. His surroundings seemed to warp until everything was fogged. He heard sounds as if he were in a vacuum, everything getting distorted and blown in the wrong direction.

He felt no limbs. He felt no pain. He felt no sadness. He felt no fear.

He felt nothing.

"No…no….I'm…not."

* * *

 _ **how did Jarvis get around the directive? what happened to the Lobster Shack monster? Will Tony live? Will Steve scoop him into his arms and save him? you'll only find out if you...**_

 **...REVIEW**

 **OKAY so this is part one of Tony being Tony, very angsty, I know, but I had a lot of fun writing a very tony-centric fic cuz it's been a while since we were mostly in his head - hence the swearing. Sorry about not updating, guys. I had midterms and then spring break and let's just say I don't remember a whole lot of spring break…so I was busy.**

 _ **ALSO for you crazy marvel fans, I threw in an Easter egg in this chapter. The directive code for Tony's Do Not Resuscitate order?**_

 _ **That's the date that Howard and Maria died.**_

 _ **FUN, RIGHT?**_

 **Anyway, I love you all, welcome to the young and old followers. I will try to update next week, but who knows what school will chuck at my face.**


	19. L for Lies Part 2

**L for Lies: Part 2**

* * *

 **THANK YOU FOR EVERYONE'S WELL WISHES**

 **The whole "no screen" thing has been a hard thing to come back from. Sorry this took longer than I was expecting.**

 **YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY.**

 **FINALLY, for those of you who were a tad confused, Tony was NOT paralyzed – severe blood loss or trauma in the abdominal region often leaves to the** _ **sensation**_ **of paralysis, as in there wasn't enough blood reaching the outer limbs, so the nerves begin shutting down. TONY STARK IS NOT PARALYZED IN MY FIC….yet. We still haven't gotten to P, so who knows what the fuck I'll do to him…**

 **ANYWAY, CONTINUING:**

* * *

As the Quinjet roared through open air space, Steve Rogers sat at its helm. His eyes were glued to the California coastline growing larger and larger as the aircraft was pushed to its limits. They had made the hour flight in about thirty five minutes – Steve had seen to that.

They didn't bother trying to call in public paramedics. Steve knew Tony would only hurt himself trying to get away from them. Stark was damaged enough as It was, and he needed people he trusted.

Steve swiveled in his copilot's seat, leaving Natasha to prepare for landing. "Touch down in two," was all he said to the passengers. A SHIELD medical unit waited, prepped and assembled in the rear of the quinjet, as well as Bruce Banner. Each person nodded silently and strapped themselves in tightly. No time would be wasted on a graceful landing.

As the quinjet approached the Malibu County, Steve took a moment to brace himself. He knew that it was very possible that Tony was already dead – he had looked absolutely terrible when he'd half staggered, half flown off in the Arizona desert.

Steve cringed. He should have held onto him tighter, knocked him out, and strapped him to a medical board when he'd had the chance– damn Tony's pride.

He'd sounded so raw on the phone. Scared. He'd sounded like a frightened child. The soldier couldn't help but picture him. Alone. His face white as a sheet. His dark eyes wide with fear and fever.

It hurt Steve's heart.

The whole team had this nasty habit of forgetting just how _fragile_ Tony is. It's easy to regard a man as indestructible when he walks through fire without flinching in a shiny metal suit. It's easy to forget that he's a vulnerable human being underneath all that armor. He can get hurt. He can die. Tony Stark may be Iron Man, but he is not an iron man.

Steve steeled his gaze once more. He could just make out the silhouette of the Malibu House; they would be landing in a matter of seconds.

Steve hadn't been one much for praying – not since 1945, anyway. He'd let his relationship with God sit on the back burner; there just didn't seem to be any room left for it in these modern days. But Steve watched the Malibu House growing larger as they approached, and he felt the landing gear initiate with a rumble that felt almost biblical. As he stood at the base of the Quinjet, muscles flexing and heart racing, preparing to sprint with all his might into what could be a devastating situation, he found himself bargaining with God.

All he asked was for Tony to be alive. If Tony could live, Steve would do anything. He would help Tony instead of hinder him. He would listen to him more. He would protect him better. He would be the friend Tony deserved. He would do anything.

Tony just needed to be alive.

A sudden wave of fear washed over the soldier's body, making his muscles tense and his mouth run immediately dry. He clamped his eyelids down and took deep, steadying breaths. As the docking bay door began to open, images of what he might find whirled behind in his brain, taunting him. This was the ultimate Schrodinger's cat paradox: Tony is neither dead nor alive until Steve opens those stupidly expensive front doors on that stupidly expensive Malibu beach house and finds out for sure.

Steve opened his eyes with a last inhale and watched the docking bay door come to rest on the ground. His feet were moving before his brain gave them the command.

He ground his teeth and burst through the main entrance, security bolts be damned.

Fuck Schrodinger.

* * *

Natasha was on Steve's right hand flank, though she doubted that the Captain even remembered that she was there. The past 12 hours had been complete chaos.

Thor and Coulson had remained in Arizona to do containment. The beast had forgone its invisibility shield when the missile had exploded, scaring it and blowing it backwards a good fifty feet. From there, it had fled the town as fast as it could, wandering into the desert. With an open airspace and battlefield away from collateral damage and civilians, SHIELD had unloaded its arsenal, including the Hulk. Twenty minutes later, and all that was left to do was cleanup.

Barton had been strapped to a medivac as soon as Tony had laid him at the paramedics' feet. He was stabilized and loaded into a chopper before Natasha could do any more than clutch at his limp hand. Clint's skin was ashen and covered in dust, save for the crimson patchwork stitched into the side of his skull. The nasty head wound had everyone worried, as well as his wheezing breaths. There were a few burns speckling his face and shoulders, but God…it could have been so much worse.

By the time Natasha had turned around, Tony was flying away and Steve looked like someone had slapped him hard across the face.

With Tony MIA and half the team loaded into the medical hangar with Barton, priorities had to be set. The Avengers had a man down, right in front of them. If Tony didn't want to be found, and he was okay enough to fly home, then he had to take the back burner.

The state hospital had been very accommodating. Luckily, it had been a slow day for traumatic injuries; so except for a few car accident victims, the group had the east wing of the hospital to themselves.

Barton was hooked up to all kinds of wires and tubes, pushed through an uncountable amount of hallways and sent for a million tests. Natasha wasn't usually one to hyperbolize, but when you're sitting in a pale green hospital lobby waiting to hear whether or not your lover is going to live….well, let's just it felt like a lifetime. She was sure the nurses felt the same after more than one round of Russian fury was unleashed upon the hospital staff.

By 3 o'clock in the morning, Barton was settled into his room, fast asleep, drugged up, and on the mend. One broken collarbone, a pretty nasty concussion, a collapsed lung, and a scattering of second degree burns.

He'd had worse.

Natasha didn't remember falling asleep in the hospital room, but when she woke up, her friends were at her side and a blanket was draped over her shoulders. Though she was awake, she didn't stir. She was enjoying the peace and quiet, Barton's hand clutched warmly and tightly in hers. She would let this moment drag on for a few moments longer.

But a rustling across from her brought her back to reality, and without making a noise, her eyes were open and her body was alert. Romanoff's gaze locked on Steve. His face was gaunt with unrest and anxiety. He was fidgeting in his seat, glancing impatiently at the clock above the door. She watched him carefully remove his cell phone from his pocket and dial a number.

He was calling Tony, no doubt. He hadn't stopped trying to reach their renegade Robocop for the past 12 hours. She had watched him bring the phone up to his ear, a silent prayer ghosting at his lips. He wasn't expecting anyone to pick up. She wasn't expecting it either.

So, you can imagine everyone's surprise (and poor, tired Bruce's near heart attack) when Steve bolted upright, sending his cheap wooden hospital chair to the far corner of the room, and started shouting.

" _TONY? IS THAT YOU? ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"_

Well, obviously, he wasn't.

So now, flash to the present, and Natasha was watching Steve sprint like an enraged rhinoceros, bursting down the front door and plowing into Tony's personal Barbie Dream House.

She only hoped for all their sakes that the Engineer hadn't picked up the phone too late.

* * *

"Sir?"

"…."

" _Sir, your teammates are here. Captain Rogers has come to get you. I cannot speak to them, per protocol, but I have given them bypass access to the whole house. Everything is unlocked."_

There was a crash. The front door seemed to explode into the living room, shattering a glass coffee table and sending splinters onto the white shag carpet.

" _Captain Rogers was unaware of that, it seems."_

Silence. No movement. No air stirring.

" _They are currently in the living room, Sir. I expect them to reach the bedroom in less than fifteen seconds."_

There was no response – not even a cheeky retort about Rogers and his old man hips making it up the three flights of stairs. Nothing.

"… _.Sir?"_

The small camera on DUM-E zoomed in on his creator's face, feeding directly in JARVIS' systems. Their master was completely pale. If they were lucky, a haggard, labored breath came every few times a minute. His eyes had started out clamped shut in pain, even in his unconsciousness, but as time dragged on, his body has relaxed, pain forgotten or just…nonexistent. He was shutting down. Tony was dying. And JARVIS was being forced to watch. He might just be a creation – a machine incapable of genuine thought or feeling…but it always felt genuine. He always _felt real_.

JARVIS didn't waste time on speculation of his own humanity, he didn't see the point – but he _could_ if he wanted to. That had been programmed into him. Existential thought was a choice provided to him by his creator - because Tony Stark, for all his flaws and rough edges, valued humanity to such an extent that he spent years allowing a system to feel like it belonged in a world of emotional and intuitive thought. JARVIS may just be a robot, but he was Sir's robot. And he could feel.

And what he was feeling at this moment was grief.

If ever an Artificial Intelligence System could sound close to tears, it was right now.

" _Sir-"_ he began, and then stopped himself…

"… _Anthony….?"_

The silence of the room was overwhelming. Meanwhile, the footsteps outside the door drew nearer and nearer.

" _Please don't die…"_

JARVIS listened in complete desperation as Tony took one last shaky, strangled breath…and then there was nothing. Too soon, the AI watched the display on the wall flat line. All of his creator's vitals, which had been dropping since the moment he'd left Arizona, were just suddenly at zero.

Zero.

JARVIS' whole being ran on ones and zeros. Never before had he hated the number zero.

Zero was a cruel number.

* * *

Steve made it up the three ridiculously ornate and over-engineered suspended flights of stairs before reaching the shut door to the master bedroom. DUM-E stood just outside the suite, whizzing and whirring, flagging them down and gesturing wildly with his clawed actuator to the door. Steve took that as enough of an invite to enter without knocking.

The soldier refrained from kicking this door down, but he opened it just as roughly as he had the front entrance. Despite every intention he had to run into the room and throw Tony over his shoulders, he entered and immediately found his feet glued to the floor.

Natasha barreled into his back, his sudden halt taking her completely by surprise.

"Hey, Jesus – Steve, why are you st-"

"Tash?" The man's voice was the size of an ant. His body was frozen. His eyes were wide.

"Steve?" The Russian was blocked from the room by his frame in the doorway, and she couldn't help the fear that was rising in his throat at the possibilities of what he was seeing.

"…Natasha…Is he…?" he sucked in a breath. "…He's…?"

The question went unfinished.

Still in the hall, Natasha blinked, stunned, and gave her head a denying shake as her feet took small steps backwards.

Steve's arms lay limp at his sides and he almost swayed back and forth in the air before his legs completely gave out. Without so much as a sound, he dropped to the floor, landing hard on his knees, but not flinching once. Natasha was immediately pushing past him and ran to see for herself.

Tony couldn't be gone. Tony had been fine just a few hours ago. Tony had just saved Clint. Tony had to be ok. Tony had to be alive. Tony was family. Tony was-

Tony was dead.

Natasha was standing at the foot of his bed, her beautiful slender fingers fisting the fabric at the engineer's motionless feet. She didn't want to believe…

He was white. Not "untanned". Not "Pale" _._ Not "like a sheet".

He was white. Almost _translucent._ See through. His skin looked like a wax coat, a delicate shine of cold and drying sweat layered his whole torso. The room had a copper tang to it that assaulted Natasha's senses and settled on her tongue, immediately making her feel sick and she had to restrain herself from bring a hand up to her mouth.

This woman was an assassin – a Russian spy. Nobody had seen more death than her.

But not like this. Not a friend. Not the man who had been a friend and brother.

His hair was slicked back with sweat and fever. His chest was riddled with obscene bruising. His fingernails and lips were almost purple – he had struggled in the end. He suffocated, amongst everything else. The thought made her inhale sharply, which just drew more of the blood smell into her mouth, which just made her want to gag again.

"Steve, we..." She closed her eyes for a moment and let a single tear escape her disciplined façade. She would not be ashamed to cry for Tony Stark.

"Cap, he needs to be moved. We can't leave him here."

Steve said nothing. Natasha turned back to make sure he had heard her. The look on his face shattered everything that was left of her heart.

Steve had known great sadness all his life. Between his family life, his best friend, his _era_ …he had lost a lot. But she had never seen such destruction on his face. Natasha silently concluded that this must be like losing Bucky all over again – and it had to hurt even more the second time around.

Steve seemed to snap out of it, and brought his eyes up to meet hers. His blues met her greens, and she had to turn away because she couldn't take it. He was a child again. His gaze was one of confusion. Confusion and pain.

Steve couldn't bring himself to breathe quite just yet. It seemed almost unfair in his head that he should get to breathe when Tony doesn't have that chance. Tony's last breaths on this world has already been taken. But that was before Steve had gotten there to _stop them_ from being the last.

Tony had been alone. The thought hit Steve in the gut, and his eyes closed and his head fell backwards in a pained despair. Still on his knees, he must have looked like a holy statue – body, tired and crumpled, with his eyes closed and face turned to the heavens for answers…for help.

"Natasha?" He croaked out, swallowing at the lump in his throat. "We aren't leaving him. W-we aren't giving up."

"Steve, he's gone….Tony's gone."

Steve rose shakily to his feet. "Yah, he is." He sniffed, squaring his shoulders and blinking past his tears. "But he's been gone before a-and we always f-find a way to bring him back home, Nat." He strode across the room in two steps, throwing the covers off of Tony's legs and cradling the engineer's lifeless body to his own chest.

"Steve, don't…please…you're just making it w-"

"You can either help me bring him back or you can stop talking." Natasha cast her eyes to the ground. There was no point in arguing and she knew it.

Steve moved as gently as he could to get a good grip on the fallen hero. He grimaced at the way the smaller man's bones seemed to grind together. Tony was in terrible shape…. _had been_ in terrible shape…which is why he was dead.

Clenching his jaw, Steve rose from the bedside, scooping up Tony with him. Without another word to a silent Natasha, he left the room, DUM-E hot on his heels. Natasha and Steve were back in the living room just as the SHIELD medics finished preparing the gurney for transport back into the Quinjet.

The two medics shot one another sad and knowing glances when they saw Tony's form, but smartly said nothing. Instead, they helped Steve lay Stark down onto the crisp linens of the transport and strapped him in, one taping oxygen over his mouth and the other a pulse-ox monitor to his pressure points. When no readings appeared on the monitor, they looked nervously at the two Avengers but continued on with their work.

The smaller of the two medics straddled the side of the board and hovered his hands over Tony's "Starting Compressions in 3, 2-"

"Stop!" Steve reached out and grabbed the medic's wrist. "His ribs are shattered, you could kill him!"

Natasha crossed her arms. "Steve…Steve's he's already dead."

"Just, just use the shock things, ok?" Steve was flustered, Natasha was mourning, and the medics were visibly terrified.

The smaller one started to stutter. "Of course, M-Mr. Captain America, I should have ch-checked, I am so s-sorry," he started rustling around in his equipment bag, eyeing the superheroes, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere else on this earth.

"Steve," Natasha put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Let them do their jobs, you're making them nervous. Give them space." Steve shook his head.

"I'll leave when they find me a pulse." And the solider narrowed his eyes at the two medics.

Natasha sighed but waved them on to continue and hurry up.

In moments, the defibrillator pads were on Tony's mangled chest and the medics were counting down.

One shock and Tony's body convulsed, his muscles contracting and spasming. Natasha turned away, but Steve's gaze was unrelenting. He was waiting for Tony to get off the table and start laughing at them for all their worry.

Two shocks, and Tony writhed again. The medics were reading charts and graphs on the instruments, a grim set to their mouths, but they had found their rhythm.

Three shocks, and Steve was watching the oxygen being pumped into Tony's mouth as if it were the most precious thing on earth, needing protection. If any of those medics were to strip that mask off him, they would have hell to pay.

Four shocks, and Steve could swear that the earth had stopped rotating. The air was being sucked from his lungs and his legs were growing weak again. The only dam holding back the panic was the thought of how much Tony would need him when he woke up.

Five shocks, and the smell of sizzling hair was seeping into the quinjet.

Six shocks.

The medics were looking at Steve for permission to stop. Steve spoke his mind in a single look.

Seven shocks.

Eight.

The medics didn't ask permission this time. They stopped.

"Captain Rogers, there was nothing we could do." The medic couldn't look the captain in the face, and quickly went about cleaning up his station as quietly as possible. There was no response from the Avenger.

"Steve?" Natasha was at his side. "Steve…he's gone. We tried our best…but he's…Tony's gone, Rogers."

Tears fell freely from the soldier's stoic face. His mouth contorted, and small guttural hiccups escaped his throat. His chest was constricting, he could feel it. His airway seemed to be seizing and panic built up to a crest of pain so poignant and sharp that he felt like he had been roundhouse kicked in the gut.

"No- _hng_ , n-no!" He sobbed, grimacing and groaning, trying desperately to take deep breaths but finding oxygen elusive. "NO, He's NOT- _uhngg_. HE'S NOT."

"Steve-"

"NO, NO. I GOT HERE _EARLY. I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT. H-HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME, DAMMIT."_

Steve let out a bitter cry and swung out with his fist. He crashed into a pile of supplies and scattered them. It felt good. So good.

He punched a metal crate, feeling nothing but bliss as his knuckles split and the metal dented.

"DAMMIT!" He kicked another box, sending it straight into the wall of the quinjet. The box splintered with a satisfaction.

"STEVE, STOP IT." Natasha had one arm in front of the medics and their patient, and one arm reaching towards the soldier. "You're going to hurt yourself!"

"I DON'T-" _smash_ "-CARE."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THIS GODDAMNED JOB. I DON'T CARE ABOUT THIS GODDAMN PLANE."

He strode over to Tony's lifeless body. "I ONLY EVER CARED ABOUT MY TEAM!" More tears fell, but Steve was too busy screaming. "I ONLY EVER CARED ABOUT MY FRIENDS." He looked down at Stark.

He was angry.

"You…" He tried to breathe. Everything was fuzzy. Everything was red. "YOU GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!"

And he brought his fist down on Tony's chest. Once. Twice. Three times. All the while, cursing Tony Stark's name to heaven and hell and anyone in between who cared to listen. He screamed and complained, accusing, denying, and threatening. Steve went through every stage of grief and then some.

And when he stopped, the soldier's face was red and tear stained, blotched and destroyed.

But there was something beyond his haze that was catching his attention.

A delicate blip. A small bleep.

Through his stricken cloud of grief and rage, Steve raised his glance to the heart monitor.

He almost fell to the floor.

Tony Stark had a heartbeat.

* * *

 **PART 3 TO COME SOON, PLEASE REVIEW!**


	20. L for Lies Part 3

**L for Lies Part 3 (Final Part)**

* * *

Steve hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. His vision was fuzzy, his sense were fried, and his reflexes were slower than in his pre-serum days. His teammates and friends had tried to speak with him –to distract him by holding a conversation; but each and every time, he could pay attention for maybe five minutes before becoming completely intelligible in his speech and his thoughts were roaming. He just sat in the stagnant hospital room and waited. By all counts, he was oblivious to the world, practically a zombie.

Yet he noticed it the moment it happened. He noticed when Tony's breathing changed.

Amidst the wires and the beeping and the annoying ticks of the hallway clocks, Tony Stark's breaths suddenly broke stride.

When unconscious, his inhales had crested consistently, ever constant, lasting just under two and a half seconds.

Conversely, the exhales would always last just over four seconds with a small stasis when air would neither leave nor enter the body – a proverbial pause.

For the first day, Steve had hung on every one of those pauses, so afraid that it would endure. So afraid that the breathing would stop entirely. So afraid to lose his friend again.

Nowadays, though, Steve depended on the regulatory of those breaths. The consistency in Stark's unconscious respiratory function was….comforting – satisfying, even.

So he noticed immediately when it changed.

It started with a particularly sharper inhale than usual, and it lasted just slightly longer… maybe three, three and a half seconds. It was expelled forcefully, in a shorter time period, rather than lazily as a normal bodily habit.

Then, there was the slight twitch in the face. Steve was upright, on the edge of his chair, and more alert than he had been in weeks. Steve watched Tony the way a starving man would watch food being laden onto his plate. The soldier could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his muscles on fire with the need to move, to jump, to run, to do _something._ But Steve didn't even flinch. He waited.

Tony's lips pursed ever so slightly as he feebly tried to swallow. No doubt his mouth was like sandpaper. Well _,_ Steve supposed, that's what happens when tubes are lodged in your throat for days at a time.

But there was nothing beyond the twitching and breathing. No feeble attempts to get up. No grouchy comments or complaints about how badly he had to pee. Just silence and a small grimace that barely molded itself onto the brunette's features. He was barely conscious, but still complaining. The man was foggily trying to sink back into oblivion, though apparently to no avail.

Tony Stark was awake and, amusingly enough, he wasn't very happy about it.

Steve on the other hand couldn't help himself. He finally let himself move. He brought a shaky hand to his eyes and wiped away the stray tear that had fallen unwillingly down his cheek. He ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair and scrubbed furiously at his unshaven face, trying to wake himself up as much as possible.

The weight of the world melted from his shoulders, and the Avenger wasn't sure whether to weep, holler, or sleep for the next five years.

But Steve just shut his eyes and took a few quiet breaths. Tony was awake. He was finally awake.

And Steve had been planning this speech for a long time now.

* * *

Everything sounded like it was in a tunnel; there was a delay. Tony could hear noises, sounds, even something-no, someone – rustling…shifting, maybe? Well, it was nearby, and he knew that but…it sounded far away. Like the Doppler Effect, the noises started off in the distance and got closer until finally he could make them out… before their echoes trailed off into the oblivion behind him.

It had been so dark for so long, but suddenly the world beyond hid eyelids was an atrocious, offending bright white. Whatever prick had decided to install the LED bulbs in here obviously had never had a migraine before.

This had to be a hangover, and based off the cotton mouth and the lack of memory of any events leading up to this, it was a good one. Honestly, Tony couldn't remember any other situation, waking up, where he'd felt this much like an actual pile of trash.

He ignored the ringing in his ears and the gravel in his throat, trying desperately to call out to JARVIS to get a glass of a water and a few painkillers brought into his room–

JARVIS?

Everything came flooding back in a split second, sending Tony's mind reeling into frantic spiral.

Malibu.

The DNR.

Steve.

 _Holy Shit._

* * *

Steve was bent slightly over Tony's hospital bed, about to gently wake him, when the engineer's eyes shot open, panic blossoming on his haggard face. The monitors started blaring, and Steve leapt backwards in shock, which served only to further startle poor Tony who made the instinctual move to shoot upwards.

He wasn't thirty degrees elevated off the bed when his chest started to scream in protest. The sharpness and magnitude of the pain ripped a cry from his wrecked throat and he flopped back onto the over starched hospital sheets in a wave of agony. The alarms in the room went haywire, as his heart rate did a dance across the screen and his pulse-ox dropped from his preliminary hyperventilation.

"Ahghhh-hu," Tony ground his teeth and strained his neck, but the pain only seemed to get worse with every plunging breath he took trying to overcome the discomfort. Everything hurt. Everything. He felt like he'd been dragged through hell and back. The room was too bright, he couldn't open his eyes. His head was splitting in two and his muscles were on fire. His own body felt strange- alien. Nothing was familiar, everything was strange and cruel and _painful_ and God, Tony just wanted to go back to sleep, he just wanted to go to sleep, he just wanted to go….

The tears fell from the creases around his sunken eyes. The rolled steadily and gently, their warmth on his skin almost a reprieve from every other sensation. Tony let them fall freely and silently, like a whimpering child desperate for help. It calmed him, and the suctioning sound in his ears died down long enough for another noise to take its place.

This wasn't just a noise, though, it was a voice – a familiar voice. It was low and warm, with a twinge of panic to it, but its tone was soft. Tony wasn't able to string together any words or sentences, but it didn't matter. He knew that voice….

The engineer's tears continued to fall, and his mouth opened to suck in a shaky, wobbly breath. That's when he felt a warm hand stroking through his hair, slowly and calmly. He focused on it, trying to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Steve. This was Steve. It had to be.

His friends were here. They would make sure he was ok.

Like a mantra, Tony repeated those words in his head until the worst of the panic left his brain and he could control his heart rate. In the outside world, he vaguely listened as his heart rate monitor slowed to a reasonable pace, and he forced himself to take deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.

All the while, the pain was a constant, but he was managing through it.

And through it all, Steve never said a word. Never left his side. Never stopped stroking his hair.

Trying to escape the pain, Tony made his mind escape his body. He used what he could hear, what he had briefly seen, what he could feel – and he painted a picture. Tony swung his imagination to the outside of his body, looking down.

There was Iron Man, billionaire genius playboy philanthropist, crying in a hospital bed. Probably pale, haggard, devilishly handsome in the face of death, so on so forth. But…all while getting _petted_ by America's Wonder Boy, who, of course, in Tony's mind, was in full uniform…which just made the situation so much funnier.

Come to think of it, this all was a little funny. If anyone else walked into this hospital room and saw two Avengers crying and stroking each other's hair like some emotional slumber party, it would be a tad awkward. Natasha would have a field day if someone snapped a Polaroid right about now. She would probably make Clint get it tattooed on his ass so she could look at it every day even if Tony was able to destroy the photographs.

And that thought made Tony Stark smirk, ever so slightly. And the realization of how _terrible_ and _inappropriate_ a smirk was at a time like this made him stifle a chuckle.

Stifling a chuckle only made him want to laugh harder, so Tony really couldn't stop himself from–

 _No, Tony. Bad. Bad Tony._ He chastised himself sternly…but…he just -

* * *

Steve was at a loss of what to do, so running a shaky hand through Stark's hair seemed to be the only thing he could manage. The look on Tony's face when he'd come to – the pain, the fear…Steve didn't think he could ever wipe that one from his mind…Just add it to the memory bank, then: "Things I never wanted to see but will haunt me for the rest of my unnaturally long life." Yup. That one.

The hair stroking had always worked on Steve when he'd been feverish as a child. He would succumb to the temperatures raging in his body, going unconscious for hours, sometimes days. His mother would stay by his side, cooling his forehead and running her fingers through his hair. It was a way to find her, to find his way back to her. Once she had died, Bucky had always been the one to take care of him, a brother and a parent. Steve would never forget the time that Bucky fire tried to cool his fever with a bucket load of January Snow and accidentally gave him frostbite. The memory brought a bittersweet taste.

Steve was lost in that thought when he heard a small choking sound. He was sure he had imagined it until it came again; he looked down to see Tony's face contorted in apparent pain. Immediately, he jumped into action.

"Tony? Tony can you breathe okay?" There was an attempt to respond on Tony's part, but the choking only seemed to continue. "Tony open your eyes for me! TONY!?" Steve ran to the doorway and shouted down the hallway for help, then quickly bolted back to the bed. He cupped Tony's face in his hands. The choking noises hadn't stopped, and fresh tears were running down Stark's face. Tony weakly brought his hands up to swat away Steve's arms, rolling his face to the side of the pillow, trying to get away.

"Tony I need to get your airway open, please, stop fighting me." Steve pulled his head back to an upright position, ignoring his swatting hands.

"Ste-" Tony could hardly get out the words.

"Shhhhhhh. Don't try to talk, Stark - just breathe!" He reached over and upped the oxygen intake on Tony's cannula.

Just as he did that, the on-call nurses rushed into the room, checking charts and monitor readouts and running over to Tony's bedside.

"N-no, St-Steve…'m n't chok'n."

"Is it your lungs, then? Are you in too much pain? Tony just -" _swat_ "- let mehelp you, dammit!"

"N-No, Ste-e-e-e-ve, eh eh…heh….ehe hehe." More tears rolled down Stark's face.

Steve paused.

Tony looked over at him, _excruciatingly apologetic_. "Ste-Steve, I-he hehehehehe…"

Tony wasn't choking….he was….

That asshole was _laughing._

"YOU SON OF A-" Steve couldn't even bring himself to finish his sentence. He ground his teeth together and flung himself backwards into his chair, completely flabbergasted.

At this point, the nurses had realized everything was medically fine, and wisely excused themselves from the room, shutting the door behind them. The soldier probably hadn't even realized they had left, but it was doubtful that he gave a damn.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Steve plainly stated the following:

"You…are…giggling."

It wasn't a question. It was a redundant statement of fact. Because at this point, Tony was grimacing and clutching weakly at his sore stomach, but he couldn't stop laughing. He was casting gestures to Steve and to his own hair and shrugs of dismissal signifying that this _"wasn't his fault"_ and _"he wasn't trying to be an asshat"._

Steve was a statue.

"Do you have any idea what I have been through in the past two weeks?"

Tony desperately tried to sober himself up, but despite biting his cheeks, he couldn't' stop the giggles, only stifle them.

"I-I have been sitting here. In this Hospital room. For 15 days. Waiting for you. To wake up… And you finally do. And you have a fit. Of giggles."

Tony's voice was so hoarse, but he still tried so hard to sound truly apologetic. "I-I know, Steve, I'm sorry, I'm –hehemhmhm- so s-sorry. But I just i-imagined-"

"NO TONY. YOU DON'T KNOW. YOU DIED. SEVERAL TIMES."

"Steve, I-"

"AND YOU'RE GIGGLING."

"…."

"…"

"…..Well, it is a l-little funny If y-you think about it."

Steve stared at him like he had suddenly announced he would be quitting engineering to join the Olympic curling team.

How could he be laughing about this? He had died. Literally flat lined! And more than just once! And he had the nerve – nay, the _audacity_ to sit there and shrug it off.

It was so disrespectful, so callous, so…so…

So Tony.

"Honestly, Stark," Steve ran his hand over his face. "I don't know what else I expected from you. Maybe a bit of remorse, maybe some semblance of an apology. ' _Gee, Steve, I'm real sorry that I put you through all this. I hope everyone is coping well'_ or maybe, ' _Gosh Darn it, Captain, thank you for breaking the sound barrier to come rescue my stubborn ass in Malibu where I ran away after having a temper tantrum because I thought I had killed Barton – who is one hundred percent fine and recovering, by the way - and took ten years off your life from stress'."_

Steve paused waiting.

"WELL? DID YOU EVER THINK THOSE MIGHT BE MORE APPROPRIATE RESPONSES!?"

Tony just stared at him. "You are a really good artist, Stevie, but a terrible impressionist-"

"Stark, I swear to God, don't."

"No, really, you had my inflections all wrong. I pronounce my "T" sounds much sharper, it's a force of habit I picked up when I was learning Germanic T-"

"Tony I'm going to leave you for dead next time."

"And I certainly don't say 'gosh darn it', I'd rather say 'Fuck Me Sideways,' but if you aren't comfy cozy repeating such foul language, I understand completely." He trilled with his signature Stark smirk.

"You know, for someone who looks half dead, you still look like a cocky bastard."

"Yah, well, for a cocky bastard, you look half dead. Seriously, when was the last time you slept? Here – get Pepper on the phone, she can get you a beautiful suite at a nearby hotel. We'll stock the fridge, grab a few dancing girls-"

"Tony, watch it-"

"Or boys, boys are fine too. Male entertainers and what not – hey its 2016, who am I to discriminate."

Steve kept trying to interject, to no avail. Stark, despite struggling for easy breaths and shaking from mere exertion of being awake, was on a classic Tony ramble where he snapped his fingers and expected things to happen. His gaze never stayed in one place for too long, his chin hitched to the right between sentences, and he absentmindedly reached to push up his favorite sunglasses. There was no one quite like him.

Steve couldn't remember the last time he had been so annoyed and so relieved at once – though it had probably been the last time Tony had almost bit the bullet. This was becoming a nasty habit.

"Tony, Tony…Tony." Steve very gently, but very firmly, placed his hands on Tony's frail shoulders to quiet and still him. "I'm not gonna get mad at you right now. Just…Get some more rest. We're going home in the morning. You're observation room has been all set up in Stark towers. We're going to fly out of California first thing tomorrow."

Tony pouted – seriously, he _pouted_ – like a child who wanted to stay up past his bedtime.

"Cap, I've been resting for weeks according to you. Just take me home now."

"No, Tony. You will be properly and formerly discharged in the morning." The solider had his commanding officer face on.

Tony weighed his options, but wisely acquiesced to another night's stay under one condition.

Tony cleared his throat. "Fine, pal. I'll do it your way - just this once - to say thank you, really, for everything you've done these past days. But you need to do me a favor, too." Steve's eyebrow hitched. "Go to sleep. Go find some empty room or a nearby motel, stay with the rest of the team. I don't need Captain-sitting anymore. I promise I won't die again tonight." Almost as an afterthought, he added "Scout's Honor," and crossed his heart.

Steve shifted, obviously doubtful that this was a good idea – but he couldn't deny how tired he was. And he also couldn't deny the fact that Tony was right. He was fine, he was stable, and he couldn't really go anywhere if he tried.

"Hrmm…Fine, Stark. I'm going to get some rest – but I will see you at zero-eight hundred tomorrow, bright and early." The blonde looked almost skeptical.

"Deal-io, Cap-i-tan." And Tony gave him a small salute. "Goodnight, Rogers."

"Goodnight, Stark." And Steve gave a small chuckle under his breath as he headed for the door.

The soldier stopped in the doorframe, only his tired shoulders visible to Stark in the bed. Tony waited, hesitant to say anything to break the sudden silence.

"Hey, Tony?" Steve turned his head ever so slightly to catch his wounded friend in his gaze.

"Yah?"

Both men's voices were suddenly small.

"…I am _really_ glad that you're ok. I mean it. I don't…I couldn't do what I do without you as my teammate. And as my friend."

Tony shifted, ever unable to take compliments or validation. "Yah, erm, Pal, I-I can, yah. Thank you. Any, uh, anytime." And a small series of nods to boot. "And, you know, thanks for…all this."

Steve gave a huff of a laugh, his lips twitching up and his head giving a slight bobble. "Anytime." And he flipped the light switch off in the room. "Goodnight, Tony Stark."

Tony's own "goodnight" caught the trails of the soldier's footfalls striding gently down the hospital corridor.

As soon as the door was shut and Tony knew he was alone, he expected to feel relief at the lack of observers; but Steve had been a constant for weeks now, and on a subconscious level, he had known that – he had felt that. The engineer would be lying if he said he didn't miss his presence.

But Tony cast those clingy, _co-dependent_ thoughts from his stubbornly _independent_ mind. There was a plethora of other things to focus on, like work or projects of reciting the Fibonacci sequence… But his brain kept going back to those moments in Malibu.

"Well, that's enough of that," Tony muttered to himself, trying to shake off a fresh wave of panic at the all-too-fresh memories of the incident. Instead of delving into the realm of his recent emotional and physical trauma, the engineer happily reached over to the side of the bed and upped his morphine. Drugs before hugs, kids, drugs before hugs.

He hadn't wanted Steve to see how goddamn broken he felt, but now, alone in the dim lighting of his sterile prison, he let himself grimace and curse under his breath. Tony remembered very little about the actual incident when he had first woken up, but the longer he had regained consciousness, and the longer he had chatted with Steve, the more memories had surfaced.

The fearless, powerful Iron Man laid back into his crisp pillows, weakly fumbling with his cannula to get more oxygen into his sore lungs, and sniffled. He could feel his ribs, though healing, grind together with every shift, His body felt swollen and sluggish, and his muscles were useless.

He would be going home tomorrow, but the hard part was only beginning.

* * *

"I can't, please, Natasha," Tony's brow was dripping in sweat and his coloring was pale. His lungs were on fire and his legs were barely holding him up anymore. "Goddamn, please, I need to stop."

"You can rest when you're dead." The Russian deadpanned.

"That's gonna be sooner than you think if you don't let me sit down."

She thought for a moment. "Fine," and she eased him into a nearby chair.

Tony let his head fall back, ignoring the slight tugging on his ribs. Physical Therapy was a bitch, that's for sure, and Tony couldn't remember the last time his muscles were so weak. He had been laid up in bed for about three more agonizing weeks after being released from the hospital. He and Barton had made a pact to go through physio together, but the Archer had recovered much quicker than the engineer, and now only came down to the hellish exercise room to help with Tony.

"Barton, get me a drink before I keel over." Tony closed his eyes, his breaths labored and fast. His crewneck was drenched and his limbs were shaking. Natasha had had him walking up and down stairs for almost 20 minutes, and his body was having none of it. After not moving for over a month, his legs were about as helpful as twigs.

Barton chuckled silently and fetched the bottle of vitamin water in Tony's nearby gym bag. "Here you go, pal. Drink up." The archer handed off the water and perched himself on the stack of yoga mats in the back of the room. "You're looking good, Buckethead. Another week and you'll be back to your old self."

Tony scoffed and swallowed his last mouthful of blissfully cold liquid. "So, you mean," he panted. "I'll be back to running circles around you?"

Barton laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Exactly."

Natasha, in her plain black exercise clothes, didn't seem to have a single drop of sweat anywhere on her body, despite having been working alongside Tony, as well as physically holding him up, for the past two hours.

"Stark, I'll give you five minutes, then we go back to crunches."

"Natashaaaaaaaaaaaaa," Tony whined, grumpily throwing his now empty water bottle to the floor. "They _hurt._ "

"I know they hurt, Stark, but it's the only way to rebuild your abdominal walls."

"No pain, no gain." Barton echoed from the corner of the room, casually lifting his coffee cup to his lips, reveling in the gentle steam that rolled from its surface.

Still panting, Tony grew annoyed. "You know, that's really easy for you two to say, but you're not the one getting run like a mule."

"Well, if you don't want to be treated like a mule, maybe you shouldn't be such a jackass."

"Barton, I swear-"

"Alright, children. Stop fighting." Natasha had her no-funny-business face on, but there was obvious lighthearted teasing in the tones of her voice.

"Yes, mother dear." Tony sighed in a fall of acquiescence. He reached blindly for another water bottle, and Barton scoffed as he realized Tony expected him to fetch it.

"Just this once, Stark. I'm not gonna keep playing butler for you."

"But you do it so well!"

"Tony, I will legitimately stick this water bottle so f-"

"Gentleman." This time, the interruption came from Captain Rogers, as he strode into the room, Dr. Banner happily strolling behind him.

"Rogers." Barton laughed slightly at the smirk hiding behind Steve's stern face. "What's up?"

"Banner and I were checking on Tony's progress." Steve turned to look at Stark's sweaty and grumpy form collapsed in the chair. "He looks…"

"Like crap." Banner said bluntly, but gently, in only the way Banner can.

"Gee thanks, Brucey." Tony laughed dryly. "I'll keep that in mind the next time you want do use my labs."

"Haha," Bruce pushed his glasses up his nose. "Sorry pal. Just thought I'd be honest."

There was a moment of content silence where the present team members simply enjoyed each other's company; and it was beautiful in its own, small way.

Steve shifted, unsure how to break the peace, but Bruce actually beat him to it.

"Hey, uh, do you guys think it would be okay if Steve and I borrowed Tony for the rest of the day? SHIELD science division has some figures I wanted him to look over." Bruce looked hopefully between the two assassins.

"He needs another mandatory set of chest exercises and one last go on the parallel bars, but after that you can take him." Natasha was congenial, but firm. She was taking Tony's physical therapy very seriously.

After the engineer had come home, it became very clear that it was going to take a village to get him back into fighting shape. Besides being a very unwilling patient, Tony was in almost constant discomfort. It made him prone to outbursts, emotional breakdowns, and a lot of apologizing from everyone in the house. Thor had tried to help for the first few days, but he eventually retreated, unable to handle the volatility, saying something about how "battlefields are less dangerous" or whatnot.

Besides his obvious chest injuries and extensive internal bleeding that was still tender and healing even a month later, Tony's blood loss…and temporary death… had led to somewhat substantial nerve damage in his legs. Not only was his chest constantly on fire, but his thigh and calve muscles had deteriorated significantly. Natasha had him doing laps between the parallel bars at least three times a day. The Italian bitched about it to no end, but he couldn't deny that his legs felt stronger after each session and almost all sensation had returned. He owed the Russian, per usual.

"How about," Steve stepped forward with a shrug, "we help him finish up and then you two can go relax in the apartments. Besides, you've been working too hard." Clint nodded and muttered a _damn straight_ into his coffee mug.

"I don't know, Cap." Natasha was weighing everything analytically, judging her options. If she let Steve take over, she could shower and relax with Clint for a bit. Then again, Steve might baby Tony and let him off easy. Bruce, however, is a doctor and knows what Tony is and isn't capable of. He would make sure the physio was sufficient.

Maybe a bit of a vacation was in order after all…

"You can't keep him all to yourself, dear." Clint walked up behind her. "Besides, we haven't had sex in at least-"

"OKAY, CLINT." Natasha shot her hand up to cover his mouth, bloody murder in her eyes. "Ahem, Steve. You and Bruce can finish Tony's physio." She grabbed the archer by the hand and started escorting him toward the elevators. "We'll see you all later tonight."

Barton couldn't shut his mouth, though.

"Maybe not. Maybe not 'til tomorrow. I plan on going at least three or four rounds babe, to be hon-"

"STOP IT RIGHT NOW." And the elevator doors closed with the two of them still bickering, Barton looking teasingly innocent, wide eyed and completely shocked, while Natasha's face was set in stone.

(Of course, the moment the door slide completely shut, the Russian's face broke into a huge smile and she was instantly attacked by her lover, back pressed roughly to the wall. Within seconds, the hungry archer swept her off her feet; she wrapped her legs around him completely, pressing kisses to her favorite patches of his neck. The other residents of Stark Towers were just lucky that they didn't leave any clothes on the elevator floor).

Back in the gym, Tony was finally starting to feel less dead. His muscles were cooling down at a good rate and his breaths had evened out. Tony wiped his face with a dry towel, joking back and forth casually with Banner who was reading his charts and delivering some gentle teasing. Steve watched the exchange with a sense of peace. His team was okay, and he would always fight to make sure it stayed that way.

After a few more moments, Steve pushed himself off the doorframe he had been leaning against and bent down to tighten the lace on his sneakers. "Alright, Tony. Soldier up."

"Ugh," Tony groaned. "I'm not a soldier, Steve, I'm a businessman. I'm an engineer. My job is to make it easier for humans to be lazier, that's what I get paid for."

Steve laughed. "Not today, Stark." He stood, his chest expanding with a deep breath and his frame seemingly filling the room. Tony didn't often think about how unnaturally strong Steve was, but after weeks of feeling like a newborn deer, he found himself almost intimidated.

"How about Bruce helps me out so I don't feel like a baby bird being coached by a goddamn WWE wrester." He suggested cheekily…only half joking.

But Bruce answered for him. "No can-do, Tony. If you fall, I wouldn't catch you as fast." Then, after a pause. "Plus, I might let you fall just to get back at you for the crap you pulled. It's safer all around if Steve does your physio with you." And he returned smugly to his chart.

"Traitor." Tony huffed under his breath, lethargically shifting his limbs in preparation to be yanked from his seat. "Just do me a favor, Steve. When I fall, don't make Life-Alert jokes like Barton does."

"No promises, Tony." Steve smiled and extended his hand to his friend. "Come on, up you go."

Tony took a deep breath and tensed his muscles, grabbing the hand offered to him firmly by the wrist and pulling himself up, albeit weakly. Within seconds, Steve's other hand was firmly at the middle of his back, helping him out of the chair. Tony was pleasantly surprised, until Bruce opened his mouth.

"Don't give him too much help, Steve. I know it's hard, but Tony needs to fix his muscles."

Stark shot daggers through his eyes at the good Doctor. "I'll fix your damn muscles, Bruce." But the doctor just laughed. Steve chuckled lightly as well.

"Tony, I don't think you're really in a position to be threatening people just yet. Give it another week or so." The soldier said quietly under his breath.

"Fair enough." Tony walked slowly but surely to the parallel bars, his leg muscles still a little shaky but feeling better than they had ten minutes ago. "Alright, let's get this over with."

Bruce flipped through his chart and squinted through his glasses. "Steve, he needs to do five sets of a leg circuit – ten times up and down the aisle walking, two times with lunges, and two times with calf raises at each step."

Tony cringed at the thought. These were his least favorite activities, only surpassed by his hatred for his ab workouts which still caused him pain, even a month later. He gave a quick glance up to Steve, his expression somewhat nervous. Steve was looking right back at him almost apologetically. Tony scoffed.

"Yah, it's nice to see some sympathy. Natasha never looks at me like that, she always seems to enjoy my pain." Tony was jabbing sarcastically, but was shocked when he looked back up at Steve and saw genuine sympathy.

"Tony, I would never laugh at your pain."

The earnestness of his voice caught Tony by surprise, and he fumbled for words for a few seconds. By the time he had thought of a witty retort, Steve was already placing the engineer's hands on either side of the balance beam. "Alright, Tony, we'll start with the warm up, just walk up and down the aisle between the two balance bars, slow and steady, one foot in front of the other."

"Yah, yah, I got it." But there was no really annoyance behind his voice. Tony adjusted his feet, taking the time to set them flat on the ground. Despite the nerve damage leaving nothing too permanent, he still got occasional numbness in his legs when he exercised too much, and sometimes he would trip over his own feet without even realizing it. It was embarrassing, and despite the constant reassurances that Tony was doing "just fine" and that everyone "doesn't mind picking him up off the ground," Tony got furious every time he stumbled. He was Anthony Edward Stark, billionaire genius superhero. He didn't take falling on his face too well.

"Nice and slow," Steve said calmly, walking backwards in front of the engineer with his arms poised, ready to catch him just in case.

"Steve, I can walk, ya know. Do you think I need you to stand there and wait for me to eat shit?"

Bruce called from the back of the room. "Yes he does."

"No one asked you, Bruce."

"Yes you did."

"NOT DIRECTLY."

Steve snapped Tony back to attention. "Tony, come on. Focus."

With a huff, Tony took his next few steps. His legs were sore and little tired, but they felt good. His ribcage was readjusting well to an upright position, and the grinding in his chest had been greatly relieved. Tony nodded some assurances that he was okay, and set his jaw firmly. He would complete this circuit. He would whip this circuit's ass. He was going to make this circuit wish it had never been thought up. This circuit was gonna be his bitch.

* * *

Tony was this circuit's bitch.

"Steve, I…" Tony was panting again, his legs on fire. "Steve, the – my thighs," he inhaled sharply, a stitch in his side making him cringe. "I am not ready for this."

"Yes you are, Tony," Steve was encouraging him best he could. Better than most, Rogers understood what it was like to be weak and to feel vulnerable. "Just one more. One more round. You just finished the walk, so this is the last set of lunges. You can do this."

Tony wanted to flop to the ground and give up, but he knew Steve wouldn't let him. "Christ, man. Fine." He stood between the balance bars and tried to lift himself slightly with his arms to relieve the straining from his aching legs. He was sweaty again, and he was in obvious pain. Honestly, it was everything Steve could do to not burn the physio chart to the ground and let Tony take a nap for the next year. He looked so…fragile.

"I know, pal, but you and me, we're in this together. C'mon. Last lunges. You and me." Steve held out his arms, still in front of the wobbly engineer. This time, Tony didn't scoff at the gesture. He was pretty unsteady.

"Alright, alright. Okay. Alright. Yup. Okay." Tony was muttering affirmatives as he descended into his first lunge. It pulled roughly on his weak hamstrings, but with his hands still on the bars, he was pretty sure he could finish this last lap down the aisle and back. He lifted back into a standing position and switched legs, descending again into his second lunge. Things were going smoothly. Tony almost felt strong again.

With a few more grunts, Tony reached the end of the aisle, and he couldn't help but smile proudly. His smile grew when he caught Steve grinning wider than anyone else.

"Excellent, Tony. Really, excellent." Steve ran around to the other side of the bar and crossed through the walkway, again positioning himself in the front. "Last time, you can do it!"

Tony's legs were full on shaking, but he had a newfound confidence. "I got this, I got this," like a mantra, Tony said it aloud, not even bothering to mutter it. He knew Steve could hear him anyway with his freaky superhuman ears.

"Yes, yes you do."

Tony was halfway through this last painful set of lunges when he felt it. His knees were starting to give and his left foot was losing sensation. The strain was putting too much pressure on his frazzled nerves.

"Shit," he muttered. "Steve, I can't - my legs are doing the thing." Tony looked down at the ground, defeated.

Steve's brows furrowed together in sympathy, and he chewed his lips lightly. "Tony, just…just finish the lap. This isn't the end. You can make it, I know you can."

Steve stepped in even closer, and positioned himself right at Tony's front. Tony looked up at him a little grimly. "Don't trip me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Tony laughed wryly. "We both know that's not true. I deserve it after all of this bullshit."

Bruce piped up again from the back of the room. "That's only partially true, Tony."

"Thanks, Bruce."

"Anytime."

Tony shook his head, smirking, and then reassumed his focus between the balance bars. "Ok, Cap. Let's go."

The two made slow and steady progress, Steve encouraging and Tony lunging with his quivering leg muscles spasming in protest. With a gasp, Tony went down for one of his last lunges, his left leg almost completely without feeling. Steve looked away for a split second towards Bruce, beaming at their friend's progress. That momentary distraction was all it took.

Tony caught his foot underneath himself trying to get back up, and his sweaty palms slipped from the bars. The aisle was constructed off the ground, so he was looking down at a two foot drop – under normal circumstances that would be nothing – but if he landed on his neck or his ribs, he would be back on bedrest.

Tony felt himself slipping, and let out a small cry, his legs giving out completely beneath him. His knees were going to land hard on the floor, and the rest of his exhausted body was going to crumple roughly along with them. He was anticipating the pain, the embarrassment, the grinding in his chest. Tony closed his eyes and braced for impact.

But impact never came.

"Easy, there, pal. Easy." Steve enveloped him, instantly scooping him up, mid-fall. He caught Tony by his waist as easily and gently as if he were picking up a kitten.

Tony's limbs sank gratefully at the rest, and he let his sweaty forehead fall against Steve's chest, breathing heavily.

"Sorry," the engineer sniffed and meekly tried to pick up his head. "I-uh-I'm done."

"Yah, I know you are."

"But-I-I have," more breaths. "One more lap, don't I?"

"Not today, soldier."

Bruce, who had stood up in alarm as Tony collapsed into their team leader, pushed his glasses to rest upon the top of his head and approached the balance bars. "Steve, I'm gonna agree with you on that one. Screw the doctors." Bruce handed Steve Tony's water bottle and patted their wounded friend on the shoulder. "Get some rest, Tony. No more physio today, and tomorrow is you day off anyways, so enjoy the break."

"Will do, Doc." Tony tried a feeble salute, but his arms were Jell-O.

Bruce left through the elevator doors.

Meanwhile, Steve had all but carried Tony to the bench and was helping him to swing his legs up on to a nearby footstool.

The Captain watched sympathetically as Tony struggled to open his water bottle, his whole body literally shaking from exertion. After several moments, and several patches of frustration blooming on the engineer's face, Steve wordlessly reached across, popped open the water bottle, and held it to Stark's lips.

"Drink."

Under any other circumstances, Tony would never allow himself to be goddamn _spoon-fed_ by America's Wonder Boy, but considering the fact that his whole body was on fire…well, maybe just this once.

After several long and ineffably satisfying gulps, Tony broke away from Steve's gentle hold on his chin and shot the other man an almost shy look of thanks. "You know," he began. "You should do my physio with me more often. Natasha's never this nice."

Steve laughed lightly. "We'll see." He capped the water bottle and rose, walking easily across the large and bright room to the Brita station to add some fresh water to Stark's thermos. The room was silent except for Tony's slowing breaths and the gentle hum of the water cooler.

When he turned around, he saw Tony breathing deeply, exhaling through his mouth, eyes closed and head back against the wall. The engineer's face was content, the way any man would be after a day of self-fulfilling hard work. He was tired and pale and still a lot thinner than he used to be, but he was alive.

Steve had always wondered, growing up, what it would be like to have a brother. When he met Bucky, he found out. And when he lost Bucky…well, he found out what it was like to _lose_ a brother. He had sworn to himself that he would never look for that type of connection again, that it wasn't worth it.

But now, staring at Tony, feeling the grip in his heart when he thinks about how many times he's come close to losing this arrogant, stubborn, reckless, proud, noble asshole – the whole brother thing just kind of happened, whether he had meant it to or not.

"Hey, Spangles, I'm glad that you're fascinated by water fountains and all - yay technology-," Tony teased from his bench. "But I'm still thirsty and you are taking too long."

Steve smiled at the ground. "Yah, yah, hold your horses." And he began walking back over.

"See, that's the other thing, we don't use horses anymore. Water fountains _and_ cars – incredible stuff. God, you would have loved the eighties, lemme tell you-"

"Drink your water and shut up," Steve teased right back, pushing the bottle into Tony's hands this time. "And you can do it yourself."

"Cruelty, just cruelty." But now a little more recovered, Tony was able to get the cap off in only a few tries. "Why would you abandon me so?"

Steve laughed out loud, sitting down and crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn't abandon you, and you know it - I probably should have." There was no malice in his voice or in his eyes, the two were just having fun.

"Ture, would have saved you a lot of gas money if you'd just left me in Malibu."

"Meh, I'm sure SHIELD would have found a way to spend it all the same."

"That's certainly true, and even if I died they would have found a way to make me pay for it. I swear, I'm too generous with these crooks." He took another gulp of water, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand. They sat for a while in another content silence.

After a moment, Steve gave him a once over. "You need to go take a shower. You stink."

"Rude!" Tony faked indignation, and then he laughed. "I agree, I do need to shower – but I'm just being considerate of Barton and Romanoff."

Steve's eyebrows drew together. "How so?"

Tony looked up at the wall clock. "Well, I figure by now they've finished round one and will be cleaning up. Round two will start right about now, so I shouldn't use all the hot water while they're still-"

"Jesus, Tony, you animal." Steve got up to 'protect his virgin ears', as Clint always called them.

"Yah, I'm terrible." He smirked, and extended a thin arm. "Now help your injured teammate to the elevator."

"For Natasha's honor, I should make you take the stairs."

"Oh," he clutched at his heart. "Kick me while I'm down, why don't you? Haha, now help me up."

Steve got the engineer to his feet and without holding on to him, did his best to guide him to the elevator doors.

"How are the legs?"

"Good, good. Feeling's coming back." Tony leaned heavily against the wall as they watched the elevator light travel down to their floor.

Steve was enjoying the lightheartedness, but there was something he was itching to say. He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, and then squared his shoulders.

"I'm really proud of you Tony."

Stark looked back at him right away, almost weary. He said nothing, waiting.

"I'm really proud of you for not giving up. I'm proud of you for changing your mind in Malibu, for letting us help you. I'm proud of you right now, for trying so hard to get better. I'm proud to call you my friend."

There was a pregnant pause where Tony allowed Steve to decide if you was finished or not. Rogers shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for a response. He was expecting sarcasm, a retort, some self-deprecation on Tony's part, anything…he wasn't expecting-

"Thank you for sticking with me – for believing in me." And Tony held out his hand.

Steve looked from his genuine expression and back down to his open palm. He took it and shook it firmly.

"I'll always stick with you." and they shared a nod.

What they didn't share were the words that went unspoken in Steve's head.

 _I'll always stick with you._

' _Til end of the line._

* * *

 **AGAIN, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WAITING FOR ME!**

 **I've been terrible, guys, and I know it. Finding the time and motivation to update is difficult, ant emails asking me if im still even writing the fic crush my soul – but FINALS ARE DONE! YAY!**

 **Special shout out to Thunderwolf2456 and their friend for betting on how this chapter would end! I appreciate the dedication, and I'm sorry to whoever lost.**

 **Also, I know this update and the last took a long time, and I though I appreciate people's dedication and wanting to know when the next update will be, please stop sending me reviews or PM's SOLELY about when I'm going to update – I SWEAR I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN YOU OR THE FIC.**

 **I just finished final exams, that's why this took so long, I had to focus on studying. I'm done with my first year of university, so updates will now be more regular because I will be able to work on the fic around my summer job and such, so you can expect them once a week again. I'm hoping to have this finished before August, cuz that will be one year since the start. Can you believe it?! Anyway, I love you all, im going to take some more shots to celebrate being done with exams, and I recommend you all drink too (unless you're underage, then im not recommending anything)!**


	21. M for Migraine

**Guys, there's really no excuses for the updating wait on this one – I just haven't wanted to write. I moved into my first apartment, and bills and groceries and real adult things kind of took over for a while. My creativity slipped, and I hadn't felt any good ideas. So many amazing prompt suggestions and I couldn't come up with anything worthy of them but finally, my muse returned.**

 **By the way, HOW AMAZING WAS CIVIL WAR.?!**

 **Please enjoy…**

* * *

 **M is for Migraine**

* * *

Clint Barton hated mornings. He hated the blinding light that interrupted him from his dreams. He hated fumbling around for his hearing aids. He hated untangling his limbs from Natasha's. He hated the cold air on his bare ass. He hated the cold floor on his bare feet. He hated the cold water on his scruffy face.

He hated mornings.

He dialed his aids to a comfortable level and stretched, waking slowly. The distinct clicking and soothing pitter-patter of New York rain interrupted his fuzzy wistfulness about warm sheets and soft pillows - the grey clouds outside of his window and the city-wide haze of the storm were certainly doing nothing for his motivation levels. More than ever, he wanted to ignore the rest of the planet and crawl back under the covers with his favorite girl.

Barton quirked his head to the side, back to the bed, and stared out the window for one last second.

 _You know what?_ He pondered. _That's exactly what I'll do. Fuck it all._ And he decidedly spun around to crawl back into bed. After all, it wasn't even eight o'clock, and –

But Natasha was already up and turning the sheets down.

"Nat, no. Nononono! I want to go back to bed. Just ten more minutes, babe, please." The archer begged. "I know you hate sleeping in, but look outside," he gestured widely to the enormous window in their Stark Towers Apartment master suite. "It's pouring rain. I bet every criminal in the city is gonna go back to bed the moment they see this shit, so why can't we?"

She scoffed a little. "Barton, we're already up. We can't waste the day away. You know we have that debriefing with Fury before noon, and half of the incoming squad to train tomorrow that we need to prep for, not to mention..." Natasha kept lecturing while folding bedsheets precisely, but Barton had begun paying much more attention to her body than her words. Her husky morning voice, in combination with the fact that she was still naked from their…nighttime escapades…. did nothing but encourage his bad behavior.

Now he _really_ wanted to go back to bed – and take her with him.

"Babe…" Clint groaned, throwing his head back childishly, coming around to her back and wrapping his muscled arms around her waist, interrupting the lecture he had stopped listening to ages ago. "Ten minutes." He pressed a sweet kiss to her shoulder.

"No, Clint. Training." She playfully swatted at his hands as his fingers splayed over her abdomen. "Gym in 20."

"Nat, babe," Clint pressed another kiss. "I love it when you speak to me in three word sentences." He chuckled. "Gets me all hot and bothered."

The Russian continued staring out the window, but coyly now. A small tug at her lip and a raised eyebrow were her only tells that she was playing along. "Does it, really?"

Clint groaned. "There you go again, babe." He wrapped his arms tighter. "I just can't control myself." And he nuzzled his morning scruff into the thick, curly red hair at the nape of her neck.

"You always were undisciplined." Nat openly smiled and spun around in his arms. She gave him a lingering kiss on his lips and a flash of mischief danced in her eyes. "Now, can we get some exercise?"

Barton, whose eyes were still closed savoring the last, lingering taste of her mouth, gave a small shake of the head. "Agent Romanoff, I plan on getting plenty of exercise right here, dammit."

"Clint, no-!" And Barton swept her clear off the hardwood floors and laid her porcelain, deadly body out on the steel grey sheets. The contrast between the bedding and her hair, plus the feline grace to the way she was flexing herself, tempting him, made Clint's eyes go wild and dark. He let himself stand over her, taking in the vision that was his lover.

Natasha watched, with a small hint of pride, as Clint reveled at the very sight of her. She grinned, egging him on. "You comin' or what, Robin Hood?"

He gave his head a small shake and a pained smirk as he crawled onto the bed and towards her. "You're stunning and you know it and I hate you and I love you."

"Sounds about right." And the two laughed. Barton hung his head to envelop the two in a meaningful kiss, and passion ensued.

They weren't having sex for five minutes when a single rap of the knuckles sounded at their door. Before the two could even react, the door swung open and Steve unwittingly poked his upper body in.

"Hey, are you two coming to the – OH MY GOD!"

Natasha practically threw Clint off of her. "ROGERS!?"

"STEVE, WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!" Clint, wasn't sure whether to use his hands to cover Natasha or himself, so he ended up just standing there without covering anything for a good two seconds.

Then suddenly everyone was scrambling for something – whether it be clothes, bedsheets, and or a window to jump out of. Steve backtracked out of the room so fast and so furiously that he accidentally took the door with him, his white-knuckled grip in the door handle ripping the hinges out of the frame as he flew backwards into the hall. He was fifty shades of red as he fumbled with the door, trying to throw it back onto its hinges as he glanced desperately and helplessly at ANYTHING other than the room and its occupants.

"I-I AM SO SORRY I JUST-"

"STEVE YOU CAN'T JUST WALK IN TO OUR BEDROOM, MAN, CMON-"

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE GYM FIVE MINUTES AGO I FIGURED YOU GUYS WERE EATING OR SOMETHING!"

"OH, I WAS DEFINITELY EATING _SOMETHING_ -"

Nat looked up at him, outraged. "Oh, real nice, Clint!"

"YOU'RE YELLING AT ME, NOW? CAPTAIN AMERICA JUST WALKED IN ON US PLAYING HIDE-THE-SALAMI, BUT YOU'RE GONNA YELL AT _ME?!"_

Steve just threw the door back at an angle so it was resting against the wall and threw his hands up over his eyes, staggering blindly down the hallway to get back to the common area. "I'M SORRY OKAY?! I JUST-" He banged into a potted plant tucked neatly against the wall, but still refused to open his eyes. "JUST FORGET IT – ILL BE DOWNSTAIRS."

"OH, I WISH I COULD FORGET IT!"

"Clint, Stop overreacting!"

"NO, NATASHA, NO. I DON'T KNOW HOW THEY DO IT IN RUSSIA, BUT ONLY I AM ALLOWED TO SEE WHAT HE SAW. THAT'S HOW RELATIONSHIPS WORK."

"Clint, it's kind of funny, actually-"

"FUNNY?! I'M TRAUMATIZED! I DON'T THINK MY DICK WILL EVER RECOVER FROM THIS!"

Steve blindly listened to them yelling until he finally found his way into the elevator, opening his eyes just to hit the right button, then sank to the floor as their voices got further and further away. On the long ride down to the gym, Steve's blood pressure returned to normal and his blush faded. He managed to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants and stand properly, like a soldier, like a man… a man who just walked in on his two teammates doing….well….

Maybe everyone could just pretend it never happened.

* * *

"Sparring? Really Clint?" Steve looked almost pained. "You want to box against me?"

Clint was hopping from foot to foot, gloved and helmeted, punching air with an air of determination. "What is it Rogers, don't think I stand a chance? Don't think that I'm a rough and tough man, too? I can punch your lights out. Matter of fact, I _will_ punch your lights out." And he gave another jab.

"Agent Barton," Steve put on his Captain Voice. "If this is about this morning, I want you to know that-"

"No this isn't about this morning, why would you assume its about this morning? Why would you just, _oh, I dunno_ , JUMP to the conclusion that I wanted to punch your lights out for, _oh, I dunno_ , WALKING IN ON ME AND MY GIRLFRIEND DOING THE DO?!"

Natasha, who was watching the exchange from outside the sparring mat, let out a deep sigh of exasperation. "Barton, enough. Steve apologized, it was an accident, I thought we were going to forget that it ever happened."

"Oh, we can forget – but we can't forgive until there's revenge." He turned his padded head to Natasha, who was silently considering swearing off testosterone for the rest of her life, and beat his chest. "Babe, you know that show we watched last weekend? The one with the kids and the space station?"

"You mean ' _The 100_ '?" She looked pained.

Clint nodded furiously, "Yeah, it's like that badass chick says – blood must have blood."

Steve coughed from the other side of the mat. "You mean Lexa? Commander Lexa? You know she dies, right?"

Barton swiveled his whole body to stack up to Steve's. His jaw hit the floor and his eyes went wide with disbelief. "WHAT?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?"

Steve pulled away. "Sorry, Clint, I just kind of assumed – _everyone_ knows!"

"SPOILER MUCH?!" Clint seemed madder than ever.

"Barton, I didn't mean to –"

"NO, ROGERS. THAT IS THE FINAL STRAW." He held up a gloved hand. "Interrupting sex is one thing, it happens, but…this?" the Archer was fuming. "Just….Just put up your gloves, Steve."

"Clint, I-"

"YOUR GLOVES, STEVE. PUT THEM UP."

Natasha just stared blankly back at the two of them. "You're both idiots.

"I'm fighting for your honor, babe, don't call me an idiot."

"Fine. You're a sexy idiot."

He thought for a moment. "I'll take it."

Natasha sighed, walked to the exterior middle of the sparring mat, and clocked the bell underneath the ropes. The bell sounded, loud and crisp, and Clint immediately advanced towards his opponent. Steve look hesitantly from Clint to Natasha.

On one hand, if he pulled his punches, Barton would get too cocky and probably get hurt the moment Steve accidentally put too much real force behind a wild strike.

On the other hand, if he didn't pull his punches, he could actually kill a regular human like Barton – despite the smaller man's legitimate toughness, strength, and experience as both an assassin, a SHIELD agent, and an Avenger.

Steve saw only one choice.

Barton came in quick for a series of fast jabs aimed at the face, throat, and kidneys. Steve took every single one like a champ, feeling each area swell up with the force of impact -a sincere testament to the archer's strength. But as soon as Clint finished his round of inflicting temporary pain, and was looking mighty proud of himself for landing a few punches to America's Wonderboy, Steve took a deep breath.

"Barton, I am sorry."

Before Clint even had a chance to look puzzled, Steve delivered a quick and clean uppercut that cuffed Barton on the left temple. The archer was out before he even hit the mat, his body twirling with the impact and his legs turning to jelly. Steve delivered the punch and then immediately strode forward, catching Barton's torso and lowering him gently to the ground instead of letting him fall.

Steve looked at Natasha who was trying desperately to hide her smirk. "No concussion," he promised. "Probably a bruised jawbone, maybe a lump on the head. Ice well. No crunchy foods for a day or two."

She nodded in agreement and continued to smirk, crouching over Barton and brushing the spikes in the front of his hairline backward. "Oh, hon." She whispered. "You never know when to quit."

Steve chuckled lightly, and then sobered up immediately. It was just he and the Russian, now. "Natasha, I want you to know I am very, very embarrassed and sorry about this morning –"

She raised a hand, effectively cutting him off. "Rogers, it was an accident. Besides, Tony has walked in on us at least three times. It doesn't even phase him anymore. He usually throws a blanket at us and goes on continuing whatever he has to say while Barton goes purple in the face."

Steve blushed and squared his shoulders to reprimand Tony's behavior when he suddenly noticed the engineer's absence.

"Speak of the Devil, where _is_ Tony?"

Nat, still crouched, gave Barton a quick pat to the cheek before looking up to Steve. "I don't know, I figured he was out doing Stark things. I haven't seen him since last night."

"I know, same here. He barely spoke all day then said he was heading to bed at 7 pm. He didn't look too good."

"So nobody's seen him today?"

"I suppose not." Steve's forehead wrinkled. "I'll give him a call, see if he's feeling any better and wants to come down and spar."

"While you're doing that, I'll get Mike Tyson here to bed. Come on, killer." She scooped down to help a slightly recovered Barton to his wobbly feet. He still looked completely dazed, but they all knew he'd be fine in a few more minutes.

As Romanoff and Barton were inching their way towards an athletics bench on the other side of the room, Steve unwrapped his hands and spoke out to the cameras in the wall.

"JARVIS? Can you please call Tony Stark?"

" _Yes, captain."_ And within moments, a pleasant ringing could be heard on the other line.

The phone rang once, twice, thrice, and then continued to ring until the seventh or eighth time and it went to voicemail. Steve was puzzled. If Tony was going to ignore your call, he would usually do it before the second ring. If his phone was dead (which was a BIG if) then it would have gone straight to the inbox anyway. He would never let it sit there, ringing.

"JARVIS, has Tony spoken to you at all today?"

" _No Captain. Sir complained of a mild headache last night and retired early. He has not yet left his room today, nor have I been granted access to apartments. He likes his privacy."_

"Well, I think I'll go and check on him, then. See if he wants something to eat."

" _That is kind of you, Captain."_

Steve chuckled lightly. "I may be a superhuman these days, but back when I was a kid, I couldn't go a week without breaking a 102 fever." A sad smile ghosted the soldier's lips. "I had Bucky to take care of me then. Tony might just need someone to bring him a flu tablet and a glass of water, but I'll gladly be that guy."

* * *

About twenty minutes later, Steve was showered and standing outside Tony's door. He knocked once, twice.

"Tony?" Steve called from the other side of the door. He had learned his lesson this morning about barging in too quickly. "Are you feeling alright?" There was silence.

Steve wondered for moment if maybe the engineer was just sleeping it off. After all, it was only noon, maybe he had a bit of a temperature and was staying comfortable in bed. But something in his gut told him to knock again. Steve had never exactly known Tony Stark, or any Stark for that matter, to take a sick day.

"Tony? I'm gonna come in, okay? Please, uh," Steve had a flashback. "Please be decent."

He rapped gently with his knuckles one last time, and then slowly opened the door, a pleasant smile on his face and a bottle of Dayquil in his hand. Steve had never heard of Dayquil until a few months ago, and he had gone on and on for hours about how great a cold medicine like this would have been in 1930's Brooklyn.

"Tony, I-" Steve crossed the floor of the room, suddenly shocked out how dark it was. The only light in the room was flooding in from the well-lit hallway. The curtains were all drawn, the bathroom nightlight was unplugged – even the red LED alarm clock at the side of the bed was ripped out of its socket and flung to the floor.

The second thing he noticed was complete silence. If the vacancy in Tony's bed hadn't alerted him to the fact that he wasn't under his covers, the fact that Steve couldn't hear him breathing would have been the next sign. He turned to the side to look at the bathroom door and noticed immediately the door was completely barred shut with towels shoved under the crack.

Steve felt his adrenaline spiking, and anxiety balled up in his stomach. He knelt down in the dark, and thanks to his abnormally keen vision, he noticed the edges of the towels underneath the door were a little damp. There was water on the floor on the bathroom. Tony was in the bathroom. Something was very, very not right.

Worst case scenarios starting filling Steve's mind, and he struggled to push them away and focus on what was in front of him.

"T-Tony?" Steve whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat and called again, louder this time.

His ears picked up something from the other side, but he had to focus intensely. It was…definitely a whimper. So small, so frail, so quiet.

Tony was not okay.

"Tony, I'm coming in, please step away from the door." Steve gripped the handle, testing it to see if it was locked. To his relief, the door swung open easily. Steve stepped in immediately, even his eyes unable to see in the absolute darkness.

But he could hear. Tony's ragged breaths echoed ever so slightly off the cool porcelain floor, he sounded like he was trying to cry but it was almost too painful for anything other than a breath to escape his mouth.

"Tony?" Steve's voice penetrated the silence obtrusively. He heard Tony's breath catch and a haggard whine follow it. "Tony, I have to turn on the lights to see you and make sure you're not hurt, ok?"

Steve's hands fumbled along the wall, and Tony actually managed to croak sound out of his throat.

"St-St've, pl's no!"

But Steve's deft fingers found the light panel, and he flipped the switch, blinking to adjust.

Within two seconds, his eyes found Tony, unshaven and unclean, burying his face into a blanket on the bathroom floor, his whole body shaking with sickness and pain. After another second, Tony tried to raise his head to speak to Steve, but the moment his face was in the light, he let out a pitiful cry instead, his chin quivering and his whole body clenching with the effort of containing his sobs.

" _..The light, please…_!" the engineer was begging, and Steve was scared and unsure of what to do. Tony, however, seemed to answer that question himself. He scrambled, shaking and pale hands crawling, along for the floor to the toilet where he began to vomit violently, his face completely green and tears leaking from his eyes.

"Oh, God, Tony!" Steve threw the Dayquil bottle onto the counter and knelt at his friend's side, rubbing his back and wiping his forehead on a nearby towel, the cold sweat dripping down the engineer's chest and soaking through his wrinkled white T-shirt. "Tony," Steve looked lost. "What's wrong? What can I do?"

Without opening his eyes, only visibly wincing at Steve's voice, tony turned his face til his hot cheek was resting on the toilet seat. "Pl's…just…tur' da light's…off….I..h've a…m'graine…." And as if the words that left his mouth were searing globs of molten lead, Tony's face contorted with searing pain and he once again spewed bile into the toilet bowl.

"Oh, God -shit, Tony I'm so sorry!" he scrambled too noisily to his feet, watching Tony struggle to contain his tears, and then more conscientiously tip-toed to the light switch.

He had noticed the bath tub was full of water, hence the flooding on the floor. As soon as he turned the lights off, Steve stuck his hand in the tub and noticed it was ice cold. Tony must have been trying to numb himself. Not a bad idea, actually. Steve had only suffered from a few migraines in his childhood, but he remembered them as….well, let's just say Steve would rather be shot.

"Tony," he whispered so low he could hardly hear himself- but he knew Tony's oversensitized ears would pick it up. "I'm going to pick you up and put you in the tub, ok? Then I'm gonna give you some painkillers and get you back to bed, alright?" He listened intently for a response, and smiled to himself when he heard a particularly loud grunt that sounded an awful like "fuck it, alright".

"Language," he whispered back. He could hear Tony smile in the dark, but not dare allow himself to laugh.

Steve, his eyes adjusting quicker this time, shuffled silently to Tony's side and, ignoring the vomit dribbling on his shoulder, effortlessly scooped and supported the man until he was standing on his own feet. He slung one of the shorter man's arms around his shoulders grabbed him around the chest, walking him slowly to the side of the bathtub. There, he helped Tony peel his shirt off as carefully as possible as not to jar his head or neck. Luckily, Tony was wearing only a loose fitting pair of boxers, so Steve allowed Stark to have that amount of decency.

The soldier lowered his friend silently and carefully into the bathtub, his boxers splooshing in the tub and the only sound in the whole apartment the displacing water.

Tony's whole body seized up at the cold, but as soon as his head was submerged, he began to adjust. The water warmed up slightly with his feverish body heat and he let out a deep breath. Steve whispered, again so low it was barely audible, to let Tony know that he was going to leave for a minute and get Natasha to help him make up the bed with clean, fresh linens.

Tony replied, "…okay…." More of a breath than an actual line of speech, but Steve heard it all the same.

Rogers opened the door as little as possible, running immediately to shut the hallway overhead lamp off so that they could open the door without allowing that harsh light to enter the room. Tony was already in a searing amount of pain, and Steve doubted he had slept much. He needed complete darkness.

Captain America walked into the hallway, alerting JARVIS of the situation and calling Bruce, Natasha, and Clint (if he was awake) to Tony's apartment with clean bedding and any painkillers they could find. Something they had was bound to be strong enough to knock the engineer out for a few hours.

Within moments, the residents of Stark Tower were briefed, quietly, and the room was being prepared. Fresh bedding was put on the bed. Clint, sporting an impressive shiner on his left cheek, was going through Tony's drawer to get a fresh pair of pajamas. Bruce was setting up monitoring equipment and an IV drip since Tony was probably seriously dehydrated, and unless remedied, would likely increase the pain associated with his headache. Steve had returned immediately to the bathroom, checking on Tony who was blissfully numbing his whole body. Steve wordlessly scooped him from the bathtub, despite the quietest protest from Stark he had ever heard, and blindly removed the soaking wet boxers, swaddling Stark like a baby in an enormous fluffy towel. Tony was shivering slightly from the cold, but Steve was relieved that his fever had gone down substantially and that the smaller man was free of at least his own vomit and sweat.

"Tony," Steve whispered as he held Tony's wobbly frame through the towel. "Next time you're in this much pain, please just tell me and don't make me come and find you."

"Hmmmm," Tony huffed under his breath. "..'M fine…"

"I'm having a hard time believing that."

"…'mmmm, I woulda b'n fine…."

"Nope, still don't believe you."

"…yah, ok...prob'ly bullshit..."

Steve smiled in the dark, and after a final drying embrace, he propped a limp Tony against a wall, fitting him with a button-up pajama shirt that required very little on Tony's part; he then helped him step into a stretchy pair of cool silk boxers.

"…Geez, St'v…" Tony mumbled, his eyes still closed and fresh winces of pain blossoming all over his face. "Buy me…dinn'r first…won't'cha?" and he managed a classic Stark smirk.

"Tony, now is not the time for false modesty." And Steve walked him out of the bathroom and to a freshly prepared bedroom where all his teammates stood, attentively, and watched him without a sound.

Steve laid him on the bed and lifted his feet under the covers. In one large hand, he held Tony's pounding head at an angle so that he could down two of Barton's graciously provided morphine (they didn't ask how or why he had them) and a few sips of water. Tony swallowed the pills, and let his head be set down with such fragility it felt like being laid down on a cloud. Bruce patted Tony's arm just as gently, whispering to Tony to let him know about the IV and the blood pressure cuff that were about to be attached to him. Tony didn't even flinch when the needle went into his vein and the finger clip went on.

Within minutes, Tony's face went slack and the pain ceased. He let out a long sigh and was sleeping like the dead not long after.

Every team member in the room, although now free to go, silently reached the same conclusion. They all grabbed a seat somewhere in the room, no light to see by, no screens allowed, and no opportunity to chat with one another –yet they stayed. They stayed all day. They left the apartment only to go to the bathroom or to eat. Stark Towers had never been so completely silent for so long. When they came out of Tony's room, they would do a time check. The hours creeped by, gruelingly slow, but nobody dared complain. Each was immersed in their own thoughts and concerns.

An unspoken pact had been made by each and every member of the team after such a hard few years as Tony's family –so many times they had almost lost him, and always because of his own diligence to protect them. This, looking after him, watching over him….this would always be the least they could do.

Tony woke up only twice in the next 24 hours. Once to vomit, and once to sip some water with a few more painkillers. Each time he did, he had four of his closest friends immediately at his side, comforting him, caring for him, and applying fresh cold compresses to his burning forehead. He wouldn't remember the delicate finger strokes against his sweaty bangs or the gentle Russian murmurings in his ears. He wouldn't remember the gentle hand squeezes from a particular archer. And he wouldn't remember the strong arms cradling his head or holding his trash cans while he emptied the contents of his stomach.

He wouldn't remember these things, but they weren't done for the purpose of being remembered.

* * *

The next morning saw Tony groggily sitting up in his bed. His shaky hands reached to his bedside table, fumbling for the light switch, feeling the familiar tug of an IV line in his forearm.

When Tony switched on the lone bedside lamp, he took in his surroundings:

Bruce was asleep in an office chair next to the bed, his head resting haphazardly on a heart monitor; his wire frame glasses were bent at an angle on his face that was rather comical.

Steve was ever the soldier, his arms crossed defensively across his muscled chest, his back against the wall opposite the bed and his legs straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, though a line of perpetual worry seemed etched onto his forehead.

Natasha and Clint had found each other even in the dark, it seemed. The Archer was on the loveseat. His head and feet were propped on the two opposite armrests, the sofa obviously too small for him; but still, the redhead was curled into a ball on his chest. Subconsciously in the night, he had tucked her under the crook of his arm so she was protectively situated between his body and the cushions.

Tony took in the sight before him, blinking fuzzily, the pain in his head hardly noticeable anymore. He felt a small lump build in his throat. This is the stuff he would always remember. This was his family.

Battle wound or band aid, they would always take care of him.

* * *

 **This was just a cute lil chapter, more of a common whump than a crazy exciting battle-induced deathly injury. I wanted a kind of short and sweet whump this time. Hope you guys enjoyed it and it gave you little fluffy feels**


	22. N for Nightmares

**A couple people requested something to do with PTSD / panic attacks. The thing is, I want to use P for something else, and so I've decided to use this letter for prodding Tony's mental state instead.**

 **IMPORTANT: SPOILER ALERT! THIS CHAPTER OFFICIALLY TAKES PLACE AFTER THE EVENTS OF CACW, NO LONGER AN AU LIKE THE REST OF THE FIC SERIES, so if you haven't seen it, don't read.**

 **The rest of the fic series is AU just cuz Tony still has his reactor and Barton and Nat are together and all that jazz, and usually I do my own thing and ignore the overarching plots of the movies that create turning points, but this chapter is officially sticking to the script. ****The next chapters will NOT, they will go back to happy family! avengers.**

 **Appropriately considering the events of CACW, Steve will not** _ **physically**_ **being appearing in this episode, only in thoughts.**

 **MAJOR ANGST.**

* * *

 **N for Nightmares**

* * *

 _The suit was in full failure, the arc reactor in his chest plate fried beyond recognition. Every wire in his helmet was shorting, the electrical current biting into his neck wherever the frayed copper met flesh. Tony was hanging on for dear life, his suit becoming heavier and heavier by the second as his hydraulics failed – as his chances of survival dipped lower and lower. The cliff edge that he clung desperately to was beginning to give. The earth was crumbling._

 _He looked down between his feet, his neck craning over the confines of his suit, the mangled metal tearing at the vulnerable skin on his throat. He had to look down, he had to see._

 _Explosions. Fire. A seemingly endless fall that would surely obliterate him – he was inches away from a downward spiral into oblivion. He wondered for a moment if it would be the crash that would kill him or if the fiery blasts would boil him alive mid-air before he ever saw the ground. He really didn't know which one he preferred. All he knew is that this must be hell._

 _He tried again to pull himself to safety, sweat pouring from every gland, tears flowing freely down his face. His heart was hammering in his chest, his adrenaline spiking dangerously. He couldn't die, this couldn't be the end._

 _Blood oozed down his forehead and into his eyes, mixing with sweat and clouding his vision – blood? When did he cut himself? What happened? Tony couldn't remember being injured – hell, he couldn't even remember how he ended up here, holding onto rocks with an ever-stiffening metal gauntlet that refused to grip any tighter, never mind haul him upwards._

" _H-Help! HELP!" Tony cried, his chin quivering as desolation set in. "SOMEBODY, P-PLEASE?!" Where was he – why was he alone in his suit? Was there a fight going on? Where was his team?_

"… _Tony?" he heard someone call. Immediately, his heart lifted. He recognized that voice. That voice would help him._

" _STEVE!" Tony beckons, tears of relief now replacing those of anguish. "STEVE, HELP, DOWN HERE!" The Cliffside argues with his optimism,however, deciding to crumble further. Tony was minutes away from freefall._

 _The heavy footfalls of the soldier's boots came at a frustratingly slow pace. They grew nearer and nearer until Steve's head, followed by his torso, followed by his whole body, came into sight and loomed above Tony's slipping hands._

 _Steve was dressed for a fight, his Captain America suit and vibranium shield shining brilliantly amongst the fire and the filth. But…he was looking absolutely pristine. Tony, covered in grime and dirt and sweat, wondered how that could be. If they had been fighting something, why was Steve untouched?_

" _Wh-what's going on, Steve?" Tony looked like a small child – he certainly felt like one. "Help me, Steve. I'm going to fall!"_

 _Steve crouched down, smiling too nicely, looking completely uninterested. "Sure thing, Stark." And he unfolded his hands from his chest, reaching them out to Tony._

 _Tony stared in horror. Steve's gloves were soaked in blood. The more he stared, the more they dripped. It was practically black, the blood was so dark. And there was so much – too much._

" _Steve…" Tony's eyes were wide and frightened. "What…Who?"_

" _Oh, this?" Steve inspected his hands, lifting them to his face, watching with a nonchalant grin as the blood flowed from tips to elbow, coating his arms, staining his suit._

 _He lifted his left hand first._

" _This? This is your mother's." He smiled. "And this one," his right hand wiggled gleefully. "This one's Howard's."_

 _Tony let out a shocked sob, confusion and fear taking over._

 _"I knew the whole time, remember Tony? I knew how they died. I've been lying to you from day one." Steve's smile only grew._

 _The earth slipped more under the engineer's fingers._

" _Steve, stop it! Help me up!"_

" _I don't think so, Tony."_

 _The Cliffside was giving way fast, debris flying, rocks tumbling into the pit._

" _STEVE, PLEASE!"_

 _And then, the soldier laughed. He threw his head back and let out a gut-twisting sound that was full of hatred and bitterness. It wasn't Steve's laugh - Steve would never laugh like this._

" _Oh, Tony. Don't you get it?" and he knelt down again. He picked up his shield, and Tony was transfixed as the coloring shifted. The blue drained away, seemingly peeling itself off the disc and slinking into the ground. The shield shimmered. The star sharpened its edges. The rings went away._

 _In the end, a silver shield with a single red star in the middle was held firmly in the hands of Captain America. His eyes were full of evil. His gaze was steel. The air around them went from blistering heat to an arctic cold. Ice crept along the ground, reaching Tony's hands. He felt he frost seep into his gauntlets and settle into his bones. His grip weakened further._

" _I told you I'd be with you til the end of the line, Tony."_

 _Steve leaned in closer to the dangling man's ears. Tony was whimpering, the wintery cold combining with his own fear to leave him a shaking, dangling mess._

"… _And this is where it stops."_

 _And without another word, Steve slammed his fist into the side of Tony's unmasked face, the force sending him reeling backwards into open air. His hands left their ledge, and he began to fall._

 _Tony screamed, desperately trying to get his thrusters to work, but the suit was dead. He was a flying pile of scraps._

 _The explosions surrounded him like a cocoon, blasting him through the air, the fire seared at his flesh, the hair on his head went alight and his limbs were being cooked in his metal shell. He tried to cry out but the heat stole the words from his mouth, searing the inside of his throat. His tongue swelled and burst, blistering as the black smoke filled every inch of space and air around him. He was falling…falling…never stopping, never dying, just falling. Steve's laughter was everywhere and nowhere all at once until finally Tony he couldn't see, he couldn't hear, and he couldn't breathe…he couldn't breathe…he couldn't-_

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Tony shot upright in his bed, ripping desperately at his sheets, his shirt soaked with sweat, his lungs screaming for air, his whole body wracked with a phantom burning pain.

He flung himself to the floor, clawing at the carpet, his eyes filled with tears and sweat. He sobbed, his whole body shaking, his hands fisting into the duvet that he had dragged to the floor, trying frantically to ground himself.

"It's not real, it's not real…" he cried, rocking himself back and forth. His throat opened up and blissful air vacuumed its way into his body, his diaphragm trying fruitlessly to steady itself, to find its rhythm again. Reality sank back in after a few moments as the panic and confusions dissipated. There was no pit, no ledge, no fire. But there was Steve. And Bucky. Rhodey. His parents…those were all still there. It had all still happened. He didn't get to call those dreams.

He was in a ball, his knees drawn to his chest, his face planted in the rug. Tony Stark was sobbing – and not a manly, Hollywood sob. His mouth was open in an "O" as his chin dimpled and his whole body shook soundlessly. Drool and spit and tears and snot dripped into the floor. His face was crumpled, his skin red from the blood pooling in his head, and his chest felt ready to burst.

Tony Stark was _sobbing_. He was _weeping._ He was _mourning._

He was mourning Steve, the loss of a friend. He was mourning Rhodey's legs, his old life. He was mourning his mother, hell he was even mourning his asshole of a father. He had lost so much – how was this fair? How was any of this _fair?_ And how could Rogers side _against him…_

Tony let out a shaky breath and a few huffs, anger and hurt replacing his heart shattering sense of loss. He pounded his fist once, twice, against the floor. It hurt his hand. He liked it.

Again, he punched the floor from his fetal position. He liked the sound. He liked the way it stung his knuckles. He sat up slightly, knees still on the carpet but fists free to pound the carpet again.

Soon, the pain wasn't strong enough, so Tony moved to the hardwood. He punched it, again and again and again, until the floor was splintering and his knuckles were splitting. But even that wasn't good enough. The fire and rage built up inside of him until he picked himself up off the floor and ground his teeth, wailing into the drywall. His first hand put a dent the size of a plate into the wall, his left hand went straight through it.

Tony's fist connected with a structural beam on the other side of the plaster, and he felt his knuckles pop out, one by one, almost in slow motion. Each small bone dislocated on immediate contact, then broke and shattered with the further momentum into the beam.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Tony cried out, a fresh batch of tears stinging at his swollen eyes. But the pain was still good – it was real. This was all real.

He cursed more under his breath, his chest heaving and his whole body still shaking. He walked angrily to his bathroom, running his tattered knuckles under the water. He inspected his left hand. The skin was mangled clear to the wrist on the back of his palm, and the fingers themselves were oddly angled and already turning a deep shade of purple. Definitely broken.

"Dammit." Tony sighed, frustrated with himself and with…just, everything. "Dammit, dammit, dammit…"

Without another word, Tony wrapped his hand in a towel and went back to his main room. The alarm clock on his bed stand read 3:43 am.

Fuck it, never too early to start a day's work.

Besides, Tony doubted going back to sleep would do anything except cause more nightmares – or worse, a continuation of the one he'd just had. His hand needed attention anyways; and as much as Tony hated being fussed over, a hospital trip was required on this one.

He walked himself to the nearest E.R., sitting himself amongst the druggies and gangsters who usually came in this time of morning after a late night of shooting up and gang banging. Of course there was the occasional woman going into labor, or elderly man with "heart attack" symptoms (Tony thought it more likely just heartburn, based on the pulled-pork stains on the guys t shirt).

A nice nurse approached the billionaire about ten minutes after he had checked himself in at the front desk. She obviously recognized him – I mean, he _was Iron Man_ \- but Tony was grateful to notice that she didn't lose her sense of professionalism. She treated him with the proper amount of attentiveness, but nothing beyond that. She wasn't fawning over him. Maybe she wasn't even a fan.

Truth be told, the nurse's name was Cheryl, and what Tony Stark didn't know was that she had every poster of him and the Avengers available hanging up back in her apartment on 29th – but she had taken one look at the haggard, drawn, and deadened expression on her Idol's face and she realized…this was a broken man. She settled her own nerves and treated him like any other patient – he was obviously not in the mood for a photo-op.

She didn't bother asking him what happened. She had seen enough bloody knuckles to know the difference between a fistfight and a self-beating.

Cheryl made cheerful small talk as she dutifully sterilized, wrapped, and iced Tony's hands. She commented on the weather, the recent news reports about the stocks – she even told him about her sister's new baby. Tony smiled politely, true tenderness in his eyes, and asked its name.

"David," she told him. "My first nephew – born premature, the poor guy. Came in at a scrawny four pounds, smallest little thing I'd ever seen, but he's quite a fighter. Never gave up, even when the doctor's said he might not make it. He's three months, now, and bouncing around like you wouldn't believe, chubby legs and everything."

Tony watched the light in her eyes and the wholesomeness of her smile as she spoke of her family. He couldn't pretend to be really absorbing everything she was telling him, but he cared more about the _way_ in which she told it.

His thoughts went to his own family. His parents…both gone. _Had they ever spoken about me like that?_ He couldn't help but wonder. _Had their eyes ever lit up at even the_ opportunity _to brag about their son?_

His mother's probably had. Tony could remember coming home from school after weeks away, looking for nothing more than a soft hug from Maria – the way all the worry in her face would melt the moment she laid eyes on her baby. But Howard?

Howard's eyes had only ever lit up on two occasions – one, when he'd invented something especially clever, or two when he was talking about a particular soldier…

"Do you know Steve Rogers?" Tony absentmindedly interrupted the nurse mid-sentence, but the woman took it in perfect stride. She heard the way that name caught in his throat.

"I know of him, yes. But…I would think that you know him better than me." She smiled sadly.

Tony sighed gently. "I would have thought so, too." And she watched his shoulders deflate ever-so-slightly.

"…Is it true, sir? What they said on the news? About him and Lieutenant Barnes?"

"Yup."

"So they're gone?"

"Yup. And don't ask me where, because hell if I know."

Cheryl stopped her work to look up at him, her young blue eyes meeting his disillusioned brown ones. "…And are you going to be alright?"

Tony looked right back down at her, and she thought she saw something beautifully fragile flash inside his gaze, but it was gone too soon.

"You know, Cheryl, you're the first one to ask me that."

"Well, what's your answer?"

Tony laughed wryly. It was a bad laugh, a bitter one. "For the first time in my life, sweetheart, I don't have an answer."

After that, the two sat in silence. Cheryl hummed very quietly every few minutes as she completed some basic first aid and she stayed with him during his X-Rays even though she didn't have to. There was something about him that made her feel the need to stay at his side, even if she did nothing more than distract him.

At the end of it all, reaching around 5:00 am, Tony had three broken fingers and a compound fracture in his wrist. The dislocated fingers were popped back with a local anesthetic, but the breaks had to be cast. Everything was realigned and splinted by an orthopedic surgeon on call before the superhero was returned to Cheryl for some final touches.

"You know, Mr. Stark," she began quietly as she spread antibacterial balm onto his cuts. "I-"

"Please," his voice was slightly hoarse. "Call me Tony."

"Well, then," she smiled. "Tony." The balm stung Tony's hands, but he didn't even flinch. "I want you to know that I think you did the right thing. A lot of people think the same way. You were trying to be the good guy."

Tony looked down at his feet. "Steve…Steve isn't the _bad guy_."

Cheryl shifted her head, meeting his averting gaze. "I never said he was."

"I just thought that's what you-"

"No, Tony. It's not my place to pass judgement." Here words were firm and straightforward, but there was no fire or cynicism behind them. She was simply being honest. Tony liked that. "It's easy for us _regular_ people to sit down here in our little houses and judge – to say that we would do things differently, or we would pick our own sides." She tightened a bandage methodically. "But if it were my friend? My brother? I…I don't know what I would have done."

"The way I see it, Sir, you had a decision to make based on what was presented to you. You had facts to go off, hard evidence. I might just be a nurse, but that still makes me a woman of science. You're an engineer. We both like the numbers, the odds. We both see statistics we don't like each and every day, and we get to choose how we react to them. The difference is, I don't have to make the call when it's someone's time to pass on – that's for the doctors. And I see what it does to them. They try so hard to save someone, and they die anyway. You," she tightened the other hand's wrappings, "are responsible for thousands of people at once, sometimes millions. You save as many as you can, but it's always the ones you can't save who you remember, who you get blamed for. Captain Rogers seems like the kind of man who prefers to focus on the ones you _did_ save – he prefers those odds. You prefer to look at the same statistics and see only room for improvement – that's why you're a good inventor."

Tony stared at her, slightly without words. This was just an innocent, twenty-something girl, picking through his brain after knowing him for an hour and a half.

"So, I'm the pessimist and Steve is the optimist?"

She laughed slightly. "I suppose, if that's how you want to look at it." She paused. "But I think I see it more as a Ying and Yang partnership. You can't have one without the other. You may be the genius on the team, Mr. Stark, but Steve is the real brains of the operation."

Tony chuckled, and put a bandaged hand to his heart, feigning injury. "You calling me stupid, Cheryl?"

"No, Mr. Stark." She gave him a kind smile with eager eyes. Her petite hands patted his arm gently. "I'm calling you the heart." The smile faded from her face. "You feel everything they feel. You take too much onto your own shoulders. You lighten the load for the rest of your team, and for the rest of the world, but you will drown in it all if you don't accept that there are just some people who you don't get to save."

Tony blinked. He blinked again. "…How old are you?"

This time, Cheryl laughed outright, quietly slapping her knees and getting up from her seat. Her curly brown hair swinging from her tidy ponytail. "You're a renowned ladies' man, Mr. Stark. You know you should never ask a woman her age." She filled out a few things on his chart. "You are free to go, Tony. Please refrain from punching hard surfaces in the future – or at least for the next 4-6 weeks."

He gave a clumsy salute with his bandaged hands. "You got it, Nurse."

And with that, Tony left St. Mary's. He awkwardly pulled out his phone from his pocket to check the time. It was quarter after five. A few weeks ago, Tony would have to worry about Barton and Natasha getting up in two hours and pestering him about the bandages on his hands. He would have had to come up with an excuse to get Steve to stop fussing over him, and to make Bruce stay away from his medical records.

But that was a few weeks ago. the Tower was empty. That family was gone.

Now, it was only him and Rhodey. The fallen pilot was still living in his Stark apartments, full accessibility and private physical therapy studio all included– it was pretty luxurious to be honest, but Tony owed him that…that and so much more.

With his phone in hand, Tony quietly called up FRIDAY.

"Fry?" Tony incanted casually as he strode down the pre-dawn sidewalk of New York.

" _Good morning, Sir. Did you enjoy your stay at the Hotel du E.R.?"_

"Don't give me that sass."

" _No sass intended sir, I simply wanted to inquire as to whether there was something that perhaps you preferred in a hospital bed over your own twenty thousand dollar imported, king sized sleeping arrangements at home."_

"Watch yourself. I can change your code in less than a second."

" _If I believed that, Sir,"_ the AI's Irish Accent adding to her level of attitude, " _I would stop being any fun."_

Tony had to chuckle. "Well, you've got me there." He stopped at a crosswalk, checking in both directions before blatantly jaywalking in the red light of the "DO NOT WALK" signal.

"Fry, I need you to do me a favor. Check St. Mary's employee records. Find a young, brunette Nurse, first name 'Cheryl'. She has a sister with a brand new son – premature birth and all that, probably a mountain of medical bills." He paused his speaking, waiting for the search to complete. His stroll remained casual.

" _Yes, Sir. Cheryl Whitley, RN; Sister Valerie Brino, previously Valerie Whitley, Elementary School Teacher; Spouse: Michael Whitley, Social Worker. Exactly $34,650.43 in unpaid medical expenses to the New York-Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children's Hospital. Patient: David Matthew Brino."_

"That's the one." Tony continued walking. "Pay those."

" _Done, Sir."_

"Good, now put fifty thousand dollars into a college fund for the kid –make sure to send an invoice to the parents in the morning."

" _Anything else, Sir?"_

"Can you find the exact address for Cheryl through her employee records at the hospital?"

" _Sir, you know I can. Her address is-"_

"No, I don't need to know. Just pay her rent for the rest of the year, will you?"

" _The landlord will get a check in the morning, Cheryl will get a copy to prove payment."_

"Good girl, FRIDAY."

" _If I may ask, Sir, why the sudden charity?"_

"She reminded me of my mom, Friday." Tony sighed. "And I miss my mom."

* * *

When Retired Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes woke up that morning just before 8, he yawned and flexed his arms above his head, stretching. He shifted his waist, and pulled the sheets back with his groggy hand.

Then he went to kick the comforter off his feet.

Nothing happened.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would stop doing that. It was going to take him a while to adjust, the doctors had said. After forty-some-odd years of certain habits, it would take a while to adjust to not being able to move his legs. To get accustomed to being…well…

He sat upright, supporting his core with his arms behind him, he reached down, the soreness in his back from yesterday's physical therapy a gentle reminder to take it east. He pulled the blankets away from his legs, exposing the cotton pajama pants that he couldn't feel as well as the calve muscles that he couldn't even recognize.

James Rhodes had spent his whole adult life in the military. He had always been fit. Running, jumping, drilling – Tony had always teased him about his lithe frame, but the truth was, he had been _strong._ Lean and mean and a fighting machine….a War Machine... _The_ War Machine.

Now…He looked back down to his ankles, just visible beneath the hem of his pants. They were skinny and wane from disuse. Tony's bionic legs had done wonders for his mobility and confidence now that he was finally getting a hang of them, but the muscles in his legs, his own independence…he knew it would never be the same.

He gave himself a mental slap in the face. Come on, Soldier.

He picked up his legs, one at a time, and swung them to the side of the bed. He grabbed his handrails, scooted himself seamlessly into his bedside wheelchair, and glided to the bathroom. Weeks of practice had made this morning routine less of a humiliating, pitiful struggle and more of a daily chore.

He got himself washed, dressed, and ready to go. He moved back to his bedroom and went through the process of strapping himself into Tony's invention. Within minutes, the ergonomic and well-designed legs had him rising slowly to his own feet, and he grabbed his cane for the extra support. Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes walked himself out of his apartments.

He was not surprised to see Tony already awake and cooking breakfast in his kitchen. Rhodey knew that Tony was lonely these days, and they were really all that the other had right now. What Rhodey _was_ surprised to see were the bulky bandages and thickly splinted hand.

"Tony, what…?" He rolled his eyes, exasperation clear in his voice. This is why they were friends. Rhodes wasn't going to coddle him. He was gonna scold the shit out of him and tell him to get his head out of his ass. "What the hell did you do this time?"

The engineer, a bagel sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and a precariously balanced coffee mug in his non-splinted hand, gave a muffled answer.

"What? Man, chew your damn food."

Tony rolled his own eyes, poured the coffee into two mugs without spilling too much, and ripped the offending bagel out of his mouth.

"I said," he chewed slightly. "I got into a fight with a wall and the wall won."

Rhodey saw the protective layer of humor Tony was building up. There really was no point, since both men had the same defense mechanisms and saw clear through each other's – but they had a habit of humoring one another.

"Damn, you got your ass kicked by a wall? No wonder Steve pounded you into the dirt."

"Ouch!" Tony exclaimed, laughing harshly, but a genuine smile playing at his mouth. "Too soon, pal, too soon."

"You're right, that was in poor taste. I apologize, _Mister Stank_."

"Would you stop it with the Stank thing? That postman was senile!"

"Whatever you say, _Mister Stank_."

"I don't know why we're friends." Tony shot back, even while placing a fresh omelet down on the table in front of James.

"Because, _Stank_ , nobody but me will tolerate you." Rhodey retorted wittily, shoveling the eggs into his mouth. He was, um, _interrupted_ by their flavor. "Mmm, Tony - you still haven't learned to cook."

"Shaddup and eat it, I'm 95% sure it won't cause any damage."

"Fair enough."

The two ate in silence, Tony occasionally chuckling to himself because Rhodey was right, this omelet was pretty bad, but not terrible. Finally, they sipped their last cups of coffee and Tony cleared the dishes, placing them neatly into the automated dishwasher.

Rhodey's humorous tone was put to bed as he looked his friend over with scrutiny. Tony looked terrible – unslept, unkempt, malnourished. Even the bags under his eyes had bags.

"Tony," He called. The engineer stopped abruptly, hearing the softness and the shift in his friend's voice. His pause lasted only a second, then he continued to stack dishes.

"What?" he was trying to sound nonchalant, but there was an edge to his reply. He didn't want this conversation to happen.

"What actually happened to you? Because I know when you're downplaying. I also know what you look like when you haven't slept for a few days – and I also know that that omelet you just ate was a fraction of the size of mine, and probably the first real food you've had in the past 24 hours." Rhodey pushed his coffee to the side. "It's just you and me, now, man. You need to talk to me."

Tony didn't say anything for a long time, but he kept replaying the words that Cheryl had muttered to him this morning. If he didn't share the load, he would drown in it.

"Rhodey, I…" his throat tightened. Images of himself, falling downwards into a hell on earth. Steve laughing. His parents' blood.

Then came the real images. Steve and Barnes, wailing on him from either side, their punches blending together until Tony felt like he was being attacked from every angle. The repulsor blast, the shield, the blood, the pain, the tears, the hurt, the snow, the dark, the…

….the abandonment.

"Rhodey …" the lump continued to build until his eyes spilled over, his back to the pilot but his body posture speaking volumes. Tony felt small. "N—never mind, I'm fine, I just haven't been sleeping well. I think I need a new mattress, my, uh, the one I have now is terrible."

"Bullshit. We both know your mattress cost more than a small boat." But Rhode's voice quickly went from sassy to apprehensively gentle. "Tony, is this about Rogers?"

That was all it took. The engineer's hands went from busying themselves in the dishwasher to going out on either side of him to grip the counter softly. He took a deep breath.

"I don't wanna talk about it right now, Rhodes."

"Too bad, cuz that's what we're gonna talk about."

"James."

"Anthony."

They held their own silences with discipline, but eventually Tony gave in. He spoke first, his voice quiet.

"..I just…I thought…Steve…" He swallowed. "I know we fought…and…didn't agree all the time, but…" the images of the nightmares returned, flickering behind his eyelids. Steve, laughing, throwing him to his death. Tears welled in his eyes, but somehow the engineer's voice remained fairly steady. "I never thought…this…not _this_."

Rhodey sat back in his chair. "Tony-"

Tony held up his hand. "-No, I just… Barton, too. Natasha left soon after and….Wanda, everything she had to go through...now they're all scattered to the wind like a bunch of vigilante outlaws, and...and that Parker kid almost got killed because I...Its all my fault, Rhodes. Everything. Steve-"

"-No, Tony," Rhodes leaned forward again. "You don't have that on you. Your teammates chose their own sides, you didn't choose for them." Rhodes paused. "And Steve didn't just leave _you_ behind, Tony. He made a choice to leave _everything_ behind. He chose Lieutenant James Buchanan Barnes, the original Howling Commando, his oldest friend, his Brother in every regard except blood. He chose his Family."

"I know he did. Barnes was all he had left, but…Rhodey, Barnes killed Howard; he _killed my mother._ He…" the tears were flowing faster now. "He murdered her. In cold blood. He took her away from me, my family. And then, flash forward forty goddamn years, and like a sick, broken record, Barnes does it all again – takes my family away from me _again_!"

Tony's voice shifted from mournful to menacing as his words built up in a fury. His hands were balled into painful fists, the stitches and bandages starting to crack as fresh blood sprouted against the starched white linen.

" _Steve? The Avengers? You?!_ This is all the family I have left in the world! But I never get to be happy, I never get to keep my family. Tony Stark isn't good enough to deserve happiness. So I lost it, let it run right by me- and not only did I let it slip through these goddamn, useless fingers," he glared haphazardly to his hands, now waving in front of him. "But I let him _break it apart._ It's broken! _BROKEN!_ I AM BROKEN!" he pounded his own chest, his voice cracking slightly. "THE TEAM IS BROKEN, MY LIFE IS BROKEN, _YOU_ ARE-" Tony was yelling by the end of his outburst, but he stopped himself before he could finish that last sentence. He froze, immediately looking ashamed.

"James…I…" Tony was small. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Tony…" Rhodes eyes flashed with pain. He didn't know what to say. "Tony, sit down."

Tony closed his eyes, sounding more like a child. "I don't wanna sit down."

"Sit. Down." Rhodes lifted an eyebrow. "because otherwise I have to stand up to look you in the eye, and that requires a hell of a lot more effort than you walking across this goddamn kitchen with your fully functioning legs and planting your pasty, Italian ass in that chair."

Tony's teary eyes grew wide, but he acquiesced. Rhodes had his commander voice on, now. He knew there was no point in arguing.

Rhodes could see clearly that his friend was hurting. The physical wounds from the fight with Rogers healed up within a week or so, even the more severe ones had mended cleanly. But now…now the pilot saw that the scars ran much deeper.

The Lieutenant Colonel cleared his throat.

Here goes nothing.

"Tony, did you know that Sam Wilson and I became really good friends over these past few years?"

Tony sniffled quietly, giving Rhodey a slightly puzzled look. "Okay..?"

"Sam and I, both soldiers, both _black_ soldiers, live every day surrounded by a bunch of crazy white people with superpowers who run around saving the world in their spare time. Wilson and I? We have skills, sure, but we aren't demigods! We don't have your brain. We don't have Steve's serum. We can't just get a little pissed and level a city. We don't have Natasha's killing skills, and we certainly didn't have Barton's sex drive." Tony gave a startled chuckle. Rhodes smiled gently. "Tony, you have no idea how many times we went out, just the two of us, sharing our own private jokes and making fun of you idiots."

Tony shook his head, a wry smile threatening at the corners of his grim mouth. "Is this supposed to cheer me up?"

Rhodey laughed to himself. "No, the point is…well, hell, the point is, Sam and I had a lot more in common than I do with even you. We could talk about things, and joke about things, that only _we_ could talk about. Neither of us are particularly…special, but our closest friends are. We joked about being sidekicks, classic movie tropes, and that kind of bullshit. We shared war stories, traumas, and insecurities. I consider him one of my best friends." Rhodey paused. "And even though he was on Barnes' team, even though he was trying to win, he still tried to catch me when I got shot down, same as you…and I still miss him. But Tony, I wouldn't switch sides for him."

"...Rhodey, do you want me to tell you I'm sorry that you lost Sam? Because I kind of thought we were talking about me here-"

"No, you jerk…I'm trying to tell you that at the end of the day, no matter how great of a guy Sam is…he isn't you." Rhodey looked up at Tony, the most genuine Tony could remember him ever appearing. "If I lost you Tony, and I thought you were dead…just like…like when we lost you in the desert…"

Tony watched in awe as moments passed in silence, and Rhodey struggled to keep his voice free of threatening emotion. "That…That was the worst few months of my life. I was helpless. You were gone. I had the entire United States Air Force at my back, and I couldn't save my _best friend._ "

Tony jumped upright. "James, you _did_ save me – you found me, you've always had my back."

"Yah, well," the darker man sniffed slightly, regaining his composure. "We got lucky that time. But Tony, I'm trying to explain that…If I were Steve, and you were Barnes…I would pick you every time. Don't blame Steve for the choice he made. You can be angry with him. You can feel betrayed. But don't think he did it to spite you. And certainly don't think he did it without fully understanding how much he was hurting you. That's why he busted your damn teammates out of their cells. That's why he left you that message. If you ever need him, he will be here. But he knew he had to follow what he thought was right. Steve had to leave, and it must have killed him to do it; I know I would never be able to live with myself if I betrayed Sam like that – but the only thing that would get me through it was knowing that I did it for _you._ " Rhodey stiffened, an air of soldier's nobility around him. "You have always been, and will always be, my best friend and my brother."

Tony let his words seep into his skin and worm their way to his ramshackle heart. He wasn't alone. He was _lonely_ maybe, feeling let down – but he would never be alone.

Without his consent, tears built up in his eyes. Tony furiously wiped them away, trying to mutter something of an excuse of allergies or some bullshit to James, who just looked at him knowingly without a hint of teasing.

"It's alright, Tony. You've been through a lot. It's just me, man."

"James…I…"

And his big, brown eyes found their way to Rhodey's so that the Lieutenant Colonel could see every ounce of pain swimming in their depths. The Great Tony Stark seemed so small, so childlike, that Rhodes was afraid he'd break him if he so much as touched him.

"James?" It was hardly above a whisper.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"Can I sleep here tonight?" Tony Stark paused, looking down at his hands, then slowly looking back to his best friend - his last bit of family. " _I'm having nightmares."_

* * *

 **Okay, I think we all needed a little bit of Tony/Rhodey feels and some good ole fashioned angst after CACW. I know I cried for like a solid hour. That movie was breathtakingly good 3**

 **Please review! I really, really loved writing this chapter! I want to know your thoughts!**


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